


This Emotion is Dark & Unconditional

by EvilPeaches



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU - Everyone Lived, Anal Fingering, Angst, Dark, Dark Sansa Stark, Dissociation, Disturbing Themes, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, M/M, Messy emotions, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s06e09 Battle of the Bastards, Prisoner Ramsay Bolton, Ramsay vs Sansa, Sansa's Revenge is Long Winded, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Stockholm Syndrome, Theon Returning to Winterfell, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29494695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilPeaches/pseuds/EvilPeaches
Summary: Sansa keeps something for Theon after the Battle of the Bastards.He doesn’t want it.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton & Sansa Stark, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 59
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the characters or GoT. 
> 
> **AN:** HOLY SHIT IT's ME. I haven't written for this fandom in like, over a year, so let's see if I freaking know what I'm doing anymore. I was randomly inspired to come back and read some old Thramsay favs a few days ago, so here we are...a new story after me taking a year to myself to write other things XD
> 
> Basically this: I was never a fan of Sansa feeding Ramsay to his hounds right off the bat, it just felt wrong to me. No closure for Theon, WTF Sansa? Anyway, Ramsay gets a taste of his own medicine in this one. Sansa is suitably dark in here, but I think she's perfectly capable, after all she's gone through.

The first inhale after a battle is won is the sweetest, full of relief and assurance that all is going to be set right. Vindication of one’s glory. Full of righteousness and perhaps despair for all those lost in the struggle.

The first inhale after losing a battle isn’t all that different, despite how it burns wretchedly in one’s lungs. There’s a strange calm that comes with this inhale, almost numb with the acceptance that while death may not have found one’s person on the battlefield, it’s certain to find you now.

Acceptance is always more powerful than sniveling and begging.

As it were, Lord Ramsay Bolton has little time to dwell upon that fact that he’s been outwitted and outmaneuvered in all the ways that matter. By the end of it, inside of Winterfell’s walls, he’d expected to die on the Stark bastard’s blade. Only, that hadn’t quite happened, had it?

Multiple pairs of hands hoist Ramsay to his shaky feet, even as he mocks them with a bloody grin and demeaning words. The Stark bastard had been ready to pummel him to death…only to be stopped by, what? His wilting flower of a half-sister? _Pathetic_.

Blood streams down his bruised and beaten face, his nose dribbling the thick copper fluid into his cut mouth. He spits out a gob of it, watching it land on one of Stark’s men. Someone lands a blow to his stomach and Ramsay spits some more on reflex. He chokes out a laugh, darkly amused. “Careful lads,” Ramsay says snidely to the men roughly handling his person, “I’m to be a guest now, aren’t I”?

“A guest is a strong term to throw about, considering where you’re headed,” The ever-serious Stark bastard replies in his dark, brooding tone, covered in filth from the long-winded battle.

The battle that Ramsay was so close to winning. Would have won, if not for- _well_. It matters not anymore, does it?

 _So, it’s not the edge of a sword, nor the end of a noose. At least not yet._ Ramsay devours these thoughts curiously. Perhaps he can admire this turn of events; he wouldn’t have given himself a quick death either.

No, he’s undeserving of simplistic. Hells, _undeserving_. The wrong fucking word. What he wants is gore and screams, and if he’s to meet his end, it certainly won’t be _boring_. Not if he can help it. No history tome will be written ‘ _and then off with Bolton’s head’._

Nothing so insipid as that. No, there should be at least a bloody paragraph about his gory death. Nothing quite so sterile as a beheading.

It’s entertaining to light the fire of wrath in those dark Stark eyes as they drag him towards the dungeons. “I knew you didn’t have the balls to finish the job,” Ramsay cackles nastily, blood in his mouth, nose swollen. Curses, his face hurts something awful, not that he’ll let them know.

He’s stronger than that. Pain, it’s only temporary and he’s the master of pain itself.

As he’s taken away, he doesn’t see Sansa watching silently, her fox-like eyes narrowed, lips downturned. Doesn’t see Jon Snow’s grimace as he looks at her, the subtle clench of his fingers around his sword.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“This is a mistake,” Jon tells Sansa later, in private.

She’s not a foolish girl, not anymore. She isn’t the same person he used to know, the girl who simpered over a pretty face and cried whenever she didn’t get her way. A naïve, stupid girl with few thoughts in her head. Lemon cakes and princes used to be her entire world. How things have changed.

Jon will learn what she has become soon enough.

Sansa’s voice is calm, assured. She focuses on embodying Cersi Lannister’s confident poise and easy power. “No. This is a _choice_. My decision is not without purpose.”

He grimaces, he always grimaces. There’s something about his brooding manner, the way he always looks pained. Sometimes, he looks how Sansa feels inside, where no one can see. “He’s _dangerous_ , Sansa. Rabid dogs need to be put down quickly. This is not the sort of man that breaks while trapped.”

Her smile is without teeth, grim and learned from Cersi as well. She doesn’t need to tell him what her intent is. She’ll let him wonder. “I’m well aware of what sort of man he is. Better than you. I’m also well aware that when left to his own devices, he schemes. That’s fine. He’s not going anywhere. Not until I say so.”

Her half-brother looks unconvinced. “I hope you know what you’re doing. What _are_ you doing, Sansa?”

“You’ll see, Jon. In time.”  
  


* * *

  
It’s quite the turn of events, to be strapped down in a dungeon instead of being the one wielding weapons of terror. Ramsay will admit, it _has_ been quite the experience, these past few days. Sansa started small and without the certain cruel confidence that comes with cutting into someone. To hurting them physically.

She’s not one for the physical. Women like her rarely are. 

_Does she really think she has what it takes? I’d wager not._

Sansa carefully unveils his set of flaying knives, humming a little under her breath. She’s gotten better at playing cool indifference. Hell, she’s gotten better at not flinching when he says her name, which is _rather boring_ , actually.

He always liked it when she flinched away from him, afraid of the pain his touch brought. The way she hated to meet his gaze over breakfast. The pathetic way she would shudder at the sight of Reek limping around to serve guests their ale and wine. The broken realization in her eyes when she first realized that he’s nothing like those southern lords and their trivial cruelties.

Whatever she assumed he’d be, _well_ , she’d misjudged his capabilities _terribly_.

This false mask of control she wears now…it rubs him the wrong way. Makes his jaw clench so hard it might break. It’s wrong. It’s _all wrong_ and yet, here they are. He’d didn’t break this bitch hard enough, it seems.

They are alone in the dungeon, aside from some really sharp objects. Normally, this would excite Ramsay, but today is not the day for that.

Her piercing blue eyes are staring him down with impudence. The knives spread out before her glitter dimly in the low light.

“I’d always wondered if you’d be a screamer,” she utters softly, fingers walking carefully over the assortment, as if trying to make a blind choice. Letting him sweat over which she’ll settle on. “Dreamed of it, actually. My dreams have been dark, these past few years.”

Oh, this wicked wench. Thinks she’s big enough to play the game, yeah? He wants to tell her to come at him with whatever she’s got, because it simply won’t be _enough_.

“I suppose you intend to find out, don’t you?” He sneers, leaning forward slightly to taunt her. “That is, if you have the stomach for it, dear wife. Women can be such delicate creatures, after all.”

She chooses a blade, no rhyme or reason to her choice…or so it seems at first glance. Maybe it’s all coincidence. His breath catches subtly, because she holds up the very knife he routinely used for...Reek.

The flaying knife has sentimental value. If one would _dare_ to call Ramsay _sentimental_. There’s something burning in Sansa’s gaze, as if she _knows_.

How distasteful of her, to presume to _know_ what he had with… _well_. Never mind _that_. He pushes thoughts of eyes like the sea away, won’t think of a sniveling creature that wronged him so, not in this moment. Not while Sansa’s watching his reaction so intently.

Holding the blade up to the little light there is, Sansa meets his gaze before coming to where he’s tied down, unable to move. Shirtless, stripped to only his trousers, absent his boots. His toes are fucking freezing, but he’s not about to give her the satisfaction of knowing he’s uncomfortable.

She’ll need to earn that.

The chill sensation of the flaying knife pressing against his skin is familiar and unwelcome. He knows what comes next. Remembers how it looked when he pressed this very blade up against Reek’s skin, the way his pulse would flutter like a dance of madness, full of terror. Such memories keep him company in this cold dungeon, when he’s alone with himself.

And, he’s alone often these days.

_ {Please master no, I’ve been good, I’m good Reek, your Reek, I didn’t ask Lady Sansa to call me by the bad name!} _

_ {always, forever. Until Reek is dead, dead dead dead in the g-ground, milord.} _

_ {anything you ask, milord. Reek is yours. Reek would never betray you!} _

Sweat trickles down his neck. Lord Ramsay Bolton isn’t afraid of pain.

He’s just not impervious to it. 

In the sharp edge of the flaying knife dips, into his skin. Normally, a skilled wielder would slide it under, just so, almost so the pain wouldn’t register for a few seconds, just before the searing agony falls into place.

And well, Sansa…she’s without skill. The separation of flesh from his body is like the tearing of a shirt, ragged. He finds solace in mocking her technique, even while growling in agony. It infuriates her, that he doesn’t give her what she wants. It’s rather too bad; she should have known that pain wouldn’t break him down to a sniveling little shit of a man.

He likes pain, blood, and gore far too much.

She does _try_ , Ramsay will give her that.  
  
  


* * *

  
  


Some days, she starves him, tries to make him beg for food.

This tactic doesn’t work; it only makes him more sullen, temper growing precarious. Without a full belly, his fuse grows rather short. When he’s not hungry, he’s more able to be snide, to carefully pick his words with dangerous precision. To knife her with his words.

Other days, she asks if he’s thirsty. The one time he says yes, she proceeds to empty buckets of water over his face, slowly enough that he nearly can’t breathe for multiple moments at a time.

Clever witch. He’s near sick of water after that.

“Inventive,” he says hoarsely afterwards. “But, say, have you ever thought about making someone swallow a fish hook on a string? I’d wager not.”

Sansa’s face remains impassive, eyes empty shells of loathing and distaste. She slaps him for his trouble and he laughs boisterously. Then, he dissolves into a fit of coughs.

There’s still some water in his lungs, it seems.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
He _so_ expects to be tortured to death or executed after the first few times she visits him in dungeon, but it seems his lovely, traitorous wife has other plans.

“ _Agh_ \- together again.” He manages to grin sickly at her, knows it drives her mad. “Doesn’t your bastard half-brother wonder where you disappear to in the wee hours of the night?”

She’s carving something across his ribcage, the drag of the knife digging too deep. His blood is warm, fiery against his chilled flesh. It’s cold, down below the main keep, even with the fire burning in the brazier.

The poorly flayed sections of his body are ablaze with agony, but at least he’s lost no parts. Yet.

This woman cutting his flesh is not the crying little bird he first wed. No, he shaped her into this, though he won’t take all the credit. He’s heard her time with the Lannister’s was no pleasant affair, and yet he’s sure they never dealt ruthless pain in the same way he did.

She’s learned brutality from him. Ramsay is almost proud.

“My brother thinks you should hang,” she replies flatly, twisting the knife.

“Oh _-urgh-_ you don’t _-fucking bitch!-_ agree?”

His worthless wife pauses only long enough to glare at him with a strange emptiness in her gaze. There are shadows in her pale gaze, speaking of horrors and lost dreams. Of an innocence long since destroyed in a ruthless fashion. “No, I don’t agree. I think you deserve worse than a simple hanging.”

Ramsay wonders if she remembers all those delightful nights in her bedroom. All those nights she cried and begged, begged him to stop, begged him to leave, begged him to just kill her and be done with it all. All those nights he thrust himself into her and bit and bruised her flesh, all while he forced Reek to hold her down.

He’d make Reek stare him in the face the whole time. Loved watching those pretty sea green eyes struggle to stay present, to not dissociate from the situation. Staring at his master’s face prevented him from going away.

The first time he took Theon Greyjoy like a woman, he’d blinked out. Just like that. Something in his eyes, there and gone. _Annoying._ His Reek occasionally would do that when being punished, just fade away for moments at a time.

Reek always came back though. He always came back to his master. Like good pets do.

Unexpectedly, his chest feels tight and anger rises in his breast, fueled by pain from his growing wounds. _Reek_. Disloyal, disgusting Reek. His creature, who stole his wife and killed his mistress, who fled and didn’t return.

Oh, _sure_ , Ramsay’s here in his wife’s _tender loving care_ now, but where is his _thing_? Where is his _prize_?

The searing pain in his flesh is nearly impossible to ignore. His chest heaves in agony, his breathing coming fast and short. It _hurts_. The unfairness of the situation is enough to make him seethe in rage. If he weren’t tied down, he’d fuck her damn skull until she died.

He lifts his head and snarls, seeing what she’s written into his skin.

_Bastard._

She cuts, cuts and cuts, small wounds, until his vision begins to swim and he drowns into nothing.  
  


* * *

  
When Ramsay next fades into being, everything feels wrong. He’s still tied down, he smells like a _fucking corpse_ , wonders if he’s lying in his own piss, tries not to succumb to the raging humiliation that wants to spur him into a fit a rage. His body is simply too tired.

This feeling of being weak is utterly unwelcome.

He feels hot. Dizzy. It’s hard to breathe. Why does his chest feel so heavy? Why are his thoughts so damn scattered? He tries to chase down reason, but everything escapes him in a puff of smoke. The heat is unbearable.

He’s sick. Something is wrong.

It must be _infection_. Fever.

Oh, look. He’s not alone after all.

“Minimal effort,” his whore of a wife if telling the maester. “Just to keep him alive. I’ve saving him for something.”

 _For what, you wretched bitch?_ He wants to rant and rave, but his mouth is dry. When did he have water last?

Anger spikes, hot and livid.

_I should have cut off all your damn limbs when I had the chance. Fed them to the hounds in front of you. You don’t need limbs to get pregnant, you red-haired slag. You don’t need them to pop out an heir._

_Cunt, you weren’t worth the trouble you’ve caused me._

_The straw that broke the camel’s back, that’s what you are. Made Reek become disloyal. Convinced him to betray me. Twisted him against me, called him by the wrong bloody name until he felt compelled to help you._

Jealousy and possessiveness are green and sickly inside of him, like gangrene. He wishes he could cut these feelings away.

The maester is examining his body, ignoring the fevered madness in his gaze.

A few sections of flesh that Sansa flayed have gotten infected and even Ramsay can smell the rot. Some part of him is rotting! Something other than his soul? He giggles a little. The cuts on his chest burn and he feels too hot, sweat is covering him in an awful film. The shakes are beginning already, fever taking control. When the ceiling begins to spin and the maester turns into a giant bird of death, he knows it’s bad.

“How did you do it?” His voice sounds awful, hoarse from screaming and cursing Sansa in every way he knows how. The fever is making him unreasonably honest about his sentiments. A certain sulkiness enters his wrecked tone. He’s too sick to be ashamed. His voice is cracking. “How did you make him leave me? He’d never leave me. _He was mine_.”

The maester makes an uncomfortable noise, as if disturbed by the emotional display.

When Ramsay gets no immediate answer from Sansa, he tries to fight at the bindings holding him down, cursing in frustration when his body doesn’t cooperate. Weak, weak, pathetic body. He rolls his head to face her, blinking sweat from his gaze. “Well? Tell me! Did you use your dry cunt to sway him? Is that it? Did you let him diddle you with his tongue? I almost don’t blame you for that; he’s good with it. We both enjoyed his unique talents.” Ramsay sneers, baring his teeth menacingly. “Here’s the problem, _dear wife_ ; he wasn’t yours to use.”

Sansa is standing there, just near the door, coming in and out of focus. A sick expression crosses her face. She knows who he’s talking about. “I didn’t steal him from you, because he was never truly yours.”

He blinks and he’s alone. Alone, covered in sweat and stink, probably his own bodily fluids. The fever is crushing him, heating him up only to leave him shivering madly moments later. When the delirium truly sets in, the world melts. He hears things, terrible things. Feels ghostly touches that make him scream in agony. Ghosts haunt the shadows of his prison.

Claws sink into him, teeth gnawing away at his toes. Are his limbs gone? He doesn’t know, why can’t he move, why can’t he get up? He hears the hounds and wonders if he’s being hunted. Oh, his heart is pounding in his chest and he can barely breathe, how is that possible? How can he feel like his heart is alive when he can barely inhale?

Everything hurts. Is he burning alive? Is his flesh charring, peeling, disintegrating into ash?

Ramsay Bolton almost wants to die, but not quite. Too damn stubborn to let a woman kill him off with infection. He tries to remind himself of this, in moments of clarity.

Most of the time, he forgets his own name.

The irony is not lost on him and the fever rampages without mercy.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
His fever dreams are truly inspired horrors and he probably has only himself to thank for that. He has no clue how many days he hangs in this dreadful limbo. Hanging between death and life.

The hallucinations are impressive enough that they cause his heart to race.

It’s quite hellish, the horrors draping themselves over him while he can’t move. Decomposed bodies stinking, rotting. Flayed corpses crawling across the floor, eyeless sockets fixed upon him with terrible darkness, open maws full of maggots and torn tongues.

Women screaming. Begging. Moments where pelts of human flesh get lain over his being, so heavy and thick that he can’t breathe, body seizing in momentary panic. He can almost taste the copper on his tongue, suffocating him, choking him.

He’s gagging on it. Ramsay wonders if he’s swallowed his tongue.

There’s a squalling baby in the damn mix, wailing and shrieking, blood spraying all over him. It feels like he’s soaked, drowning in it, but the small part of him that is still logical whispers that it’s all the sweat from his fever, no there’s no damn baby, certainly not his father’s last spawn.

Nope, nope, not that definitely not, because Ramsay offed them all.

Even so, the squalling persists, driving him to the edge of madness.

“You were always replaceable,” his father is whispering in his ear, a knife dug deep into his flesh. Voice cold and passionless, which makes it all the worse. “I never wanted you. My greatest disappointment. You had no self-control. None. I should have drowned you when you were a baby. You should have never been.”

Ramsay wants to scream, to pierce his own eardrums, if only to make the noise _stop_.

When his father disappears, he’s replaced by Walda and that awful, crying baby of hers, standing over him with a pitying, nervous gaze. The baby is a wreck, bitten to shreds, hanging like a broken mannequin in her arms, even as the squalling continues. Ramsay feels himself shudder in revulsion. Walda doesn’t seem to notice, cradling her child in her bitten arms.

“You’re a jealous boy, Ramsay.” Her voice is soft and sweet, as it always was in life. “You don’t hide insecurity as well as you think. In a better world, you could have had a father who loved you, the way I love my son. This is not your fault.”

He shuts his eyes and prays for her to go away with her awful, not-totally-dead baby and her terrible words. That fat cow hasn’t a clue about anything, she knows nothing about him, her words are _meaningless_.

Or so he tells himself.

When he dares to open his eyes again, Sansa, real or not, is leaning over him. Some part of him thinks she’s another lucid dream, this demoness that he calls lady wife, with her red hair, scarlet and wild. Eyes full of loathing and a strange amount of mocking. “No one loved you as a boy, did they? It shows; I’m a woman, I know these things. It’s why you sought something _unconditional_. Something you never had. It’s pathetic, really.”

 _Bitch,_ he wants to snap at her, wants to sew her mouth shut.

He leans up to tear her nose off with his teeth, but she fades away, only to reappear somewhere by his feet.

“You thought you could carve unconditional love into his hide. You were _wrong_ ,” Sansa intones grimly, hellfire in her gaze. “That’s not how love works.”

All of their voices begin to meld together in a horrid cacophony, a symphony of disappointment and dissatisfaction. Mocking everything that he _lacks_. His shortcomings and failings, shoved in his face. His hidden insecurities, the things he’s ashamed of, put on display.

The fever dreams shift, becoming icy cold and hellishly hot in equal measure. The ebb and flow of infection. His mind is so fuzzy, falling to bits. Why are his hands bound? Why can’t he just tear his own ears off and eat them?

He’s so hungry.

 _Thirsty_. His tongue is rough like sandpaper in his mouth.

“ _Shut up! Shut! Up!_ ” Ramsay cries out in his wrecked voice, trying to silence the noise, all his ghostly accusers. “ _Slit my throat, hang me, gut me to pieces, but don’t fucking lecture me!_ ”

Oddly enough. It seems to work. The ghostly shapes of his father and wife fade into smoke, leaving him to sag in relief. All is quiet, leaving him to dwell on their hateful, _false words_ , to dwell on the needs of his body.

He’s sweltering. The fever must be eating him alive. He might just die, as it were.

Ramsay’s vision shifts again, another shadow taking shape near the door of his prison. He can’t quite focus, everything is so bleary, but he almost dreads what sort of hallucination his mind is going to come up with next.

He lets his eyes close again, too mentally tired to care, and it’s in this moment that his mind becomes truly wicked. His nose flares weakly, inhaling.

_Oh. Oh, that’s…_

The scent of the sea filters into his maddened senses, a sharp aroma of salt and fresh air. It’s so…real…he can almost taste it on his tongue. He’s so thirsty. His tongue feels dry, throat raw from screaming. He can almost see the wide, blue-green expanse, spreading as far as the eyes can see.

Instead of disappearing into the fevered hallucination like a figment of his cruel imagination, the scent grows stronger and Ramsay finds it loathsome that the first thing he thinks of is Theon Greyjoy, because that’s what he smelled like when Ramsay first came across the arrogant Prince of Pyke.

Something cool and wet settles across his forehead, utterly soothing in the wake of his rampant fever. Is he imagining this? Is he truly that far gone?

Despite the fatigue eating away at him, Ramsay opens his eyes again, risking the spinning ceiling and the wild visions of maimed bodies and cruelly disapproving fathers. What he _does_ see is far worse. Pure torture in and of itself. His stomach clenches sickly, heart leaping in his wounded chest.

A prince is sitting next to him.

For a moment, Ramsay forgets how to breathe, at least until his lungs scream for air.

His reaction to this ghost is stupid.

Ramsay bites off a bitter, self-depreciating laugh. Why is he even surprised that he’s finally been visited by this atrocious apparition? This hallucination? This harbinger of his greatest creation? His voice is raspy, when he speaks to it. “ _Well_. Look at you. A ghost. Risen from the grave. What an unwelcome surprise. What is it the Greyjoy’s always splutter about? ‘ _What is dead may never die_ ’ or some drivel like that. _Ha_. In my experience, everything I’ve ever killed stayed dead.” Is that his voice? That rough, shredded tone? Ramsay almost cringes.

The bleary image of Theon Greyjoy doesn’t shift, nor does he cower. He doesn’t speak. He simply gazes off into the distance somewhere, jawline tight and clenched, lovely eyes clear and open. Bright and alive in a way that Ramsay hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

This isn’t the Theon Greyjoy he remembers, but neither is this Reek. _He’s a dream and this has no meaning,_ Ramsay assures his fever hot mind.

The lack of conversation is fine. Ramsay will speak for him, even though the Theon Greyjoy he recalls was a big talker, loved to hear the sound of his own voice. Theon Greyjoy and his arrogance, his self-importance, his absurdly well-formed cock. Even better; the act of taking that cock away.

Ah. _Memories_.

“Silence.” He mocks, closing his eyes again briefly, his vision spinning again. He feels like vomiting and has to hold it back. When he’s righted his stomach, Ramsay bares his teeth in an unpleasant grin. “You are as unimpressive as ever.”

The hallucination Theon comes closer, leaning over Ramsay to adjust something cool on his forehead, making a few odd, dabbing motions that Ramsay just can’t track. He’s close enough that Ramsay can see his clear emerald eyes, full of a strange vastness. Thousands of miles, yet full of sorrowful clarity.

He’s spent a lot of time looking into these eyes over the years. His stomach twists. He wonders if it’s the fever. It’s odd; this version of Ramsay’s slave is not a sniveling, mindless mess of human flesh and broken pieces. Ramsay grimaces, feeling the shakes coming on hard.

It’s discomfiting to see his Reek this way. Better fed, no longer gaunt. Not cowering. Eyes brighter. As if everything Ramsay did to him, every scar he ever carved, never was.

_You’re dreaming. Reek is gone. He left you. Betrayed you. He’s never coming back, probably froze to death in the cold fleeing your hounds._

“I find myself wondering when that wolf-bitch is going to let me out of this…lovely place.” Ramsay winces, feeling strange tugs on his injured arm, as if it’s being cleaned, as if it’s being wrapped. The moments of touch bring a strange clarity to his mind, here and there. “Remember all the fun times we had together? Maybe not in this dungeon, but you get what I’m saying, don’t you? Of course you don’t; you’re an imbecile.”

Theon Greyjoy’s image remains impassive, fingers leaving Ramsay’s arm.

Ramsay instantly regrets rolling his eyes because it makes him feel like his entire body has been spun around twenty times. He’s so thirsty, he’d do just about anything for water. “What is that witch waiting for anyway? Anyone with half a brain knows she’s going to execute me. I’ll wager this foreplay can’t go on forever.”

It’s then that his fevered hallucination finally speaks, nearly causing Ramsay to melt into the ground. “She’s been waiting for me.” Theon’s voice is hoarse, as if he’s not used to speaking. There’s no trembling in his tone. Oh, how he smells of salt and water, sandy beaches and sunlight. Bright and crisp.

_This is all a vivid hallucination. You’re fucking dying from this infection and you’re torturing yourself with the image of what you lost._

Trying to remain aloof, Ramsay scoffs weakly. Hells, his head aches! Why is he conversing with his imagination?

Hunger and thirst thrum in his veins. “Why would she wait for a nothing like you? You’re unimportant. A lowly dog.”

“She believes your wrongs against me make a list too long to read, though my Lady doesn’t enjoy comparing our sufferings. She wanted me to be here. Said it didn’t feel right, without me.”

What’s with all this ‘my Lady’ garbage?

This sounds too fucking smart to be his Reek. More proof of this dream Greyjoy being a hallucination, appearing just to mock him. This…this man looks like Theon Greyjoy, but lacks all of his obnoxious entitlement and arrogance. Ramsay’s mind must be melding Reek and Theon together just to mock him.

Ramsay feels himself sneering cruelly, his dry lips cracking and breaking. He doesn’t wince at the pain. “If I told you to undo the restraints on me, holding me down, would you do it?”

The hallucination goes dead silent once again, staring. There’s horror in his eyes, fresh and intriguing.

“Your master needs you. Don’t you remember how that feels?” Ramsay coughs slightly, throat dry. “To be needed by me? Theon Greyjoy always liked to _feel needed_.”

Something presses against his lips, cool and fresh. He feels liquid, _water_. Ramsay sips with delirious pleasure, amazed that his imagination has gone far enough to provide the sensation of drinking water. The Theon-ghost is quiet, still not looking at him, purposely not looking at Ramsay, though one of his gloved fingers brushes across Ramsay’s lips.

Ramsay sighs at the touch, because it didn’t hurt.

 _No. That’s not the right reaction, you pathetic cunt_ , Ramsay thinks at himself sourly. _Fix your mistake before he thinks anything of it._

“Who told you it was alright to touch me?” He says the words with no real heat behind them. “Was it me?”

The hand pulls away sharply and Ramsay is at war with himself once more, full of unsettling emotions he can’t control, such as, _no, don’t. I don’t want you to stop. Touch me of your own accord, not because I forced you. I want it. Even when I tell you that you’re disgusting, even when I scream that you shouldn’t seek comfort with your face against your master’s thigh…even if I enjoyed it, I couldn’t allow you the same relief, it would have made you feel fucking special…_

_…it would have made me look soft…that I liked a simple touch…_

The accusing words of unconditional love float into his thoughts again and he hates himself for being so easy to read. Curse Sansa and her knowing gaze.

“I changed my mind,” Ramsay says quickly, voice thick. “Do it again.”

After a pause, the gloved hand returns, a hesitant caress across his jawline. Seeking, gentle. It feels like heaven while Ramsay continues to burn in this hellish existence. The ghost of his former slave touches him in a way that speaks to hidden, tortured adoration.

It almost makes this pain worth it.

“You’re still mine. Even if I’m dead,” he drawls feverishly, not sure why he’s still talking to a ghost anyway. “My dear wife is right; you should be here with me. You should die with me. I want to strangle the life right out of you for betraying me. I’d feed you to the dogs, but my bitches are too fond of you.” Bitterly, he adds, thinking of Sansa, getting angrier, “All of my bitches, it seems. _You fucking sniveling traitor_. I’m going to _wring your scrawny neck_ -”

At this, the form next to him stands up abruptly, a sound of a chair scraping and violently falling over. The ghostly touch is gone.

Ramsay shouts after the quickly retreating form, because this is his dream, dammit, and Theon-who-isn’t-quite-Reek can’t just turn his back and disappear. “ _Reek!_ I’m not done talking to you, _stupid wretch_! Get back here! I _order you_ to come back here!”

The hallucination of Theon Greyjoy does something very odd indeed. He stiffens and shudders visibly before walking to the door.

It’s only some hours later, when his fever finally breaks that Ramsay has a stunning realization. He finds his arm wrapped, chest wounds dressed, and a cool washcloth on his forehead, and realizes that Theon wasn’t in fact, a dream at all.  
  


* * *

  
His mind is clear the next time Sansa deigns to grace him with her presence. He’s waiting for her, fury brewing in his heart. Ramsay is hovering dangerously on the edge of a black rage.

The moment she arrives, Sansa doesn’t speak, as if waiting for him to play his card. He obliges most happily.

Jaw clenched, Ramsay tries to give her a terrifying grin, eyes wide and pale. “How long?”

Naturally, Sansa pretends she doesn’t know what he’s talking about, idly looking around the dungeon, righting the tipped over chair. “You overcame an impressive infection. The maester had his doubts. You struggled through it for a week.”

“That was not my question and you know it. How long has that sniveling rat been here?” He inquires with cold precision, voice deadly. He sees red, a blinding red. “How. Long. Dear. Wife.”

_How long has my Reek been here, looking like Theon Greyjoy? How long has he been here, in this keep, not cowering at my feet?_

She pauses, as if drinking in the homicidal rage unfolding in his wintery gaze. “A few days, give or take.” Her voice is soft, cruelty hidden. She knows the game she’s playing.

“You’ve been keeping him from me.”

How regal this wolf witch is, sitting herself down into the vacant seat. As if it’s a throne instead of a simple wooden stool. As if she has any sort of power over him. She doesn’t. Ramsay knows what sort of noises she makes when she’s being caned, whipped, and fucked. He knows the choked sounds that she makes when Reek puts his tongue between her thighs, to moisten her dry channel. He also knows the sad noises that she makes when Reek swallows Ramsay’s cock whole, down to the base, gagging sloppily and sucking for all he’s worth, eyes only for his master.

“Perhaps,” she says cryptically. There’s something unfeeling, calculating in her gaze. "Or just maybe...maybe he _didn't want to see you_."

Wrath is a red-hot knife in his gut. “Don’t lie. He wouldn’t stay away. He’s loy-”

“Loyal?” Sansa interrupts rudely. “Is he? To you? I think not. I think he’s loyal to me.”

“Bring him back to me, you dried out cunt! _Now_!” He’s near hyperventilating, disbelief coursing through him. Reek has been here for days, in the same keep. He’s _back_. He’s _alive_.

Sansa’s eyes are laughing at him and he doesn’t like that one bit. She stands up, adjusting her large, extravagant skirts. “No, I think not. I’ll keep him to myself, just a little longer. I just wanted you to know that I have him. And that you don’t.”

Something akin to terror slashes through him. Dreadful images pop into his thoughts, tormenting him with possibilities. “Is that reeking whore sleeping in your bed? Well? _Are you using my property?_ ” His voice is fast losing it’s detached, typical cunning aura and spiraling quickly into hysterical jealousy. The very idea of them, together, without him…it’s insanity.

Reek is his. He shared Reek with her, to torment them both! Not for them to actually enjoy each other. Not for them to… _be together_. Not in _any_ sense of the word.

It’s as if she knows his mental struggle and relishes it. “Sometimes, he comes to me for comfort. You’ve only yourself to thank for that. What did you think would happen, Lord Bolton? What did you think would happen when you brought your creature to our… _marriage bed_ …every night?” She spits the words out, as if remembering those nights make her ill. “You built our bond through mutual suffering.”

“Oh, yes. Suffering!” Ramsay grins brightly, even though his eyes scream murder. His face feels ready to crack open from tension. “You weren’t supposed to be enjoying him. You were supposed to be humiliated, like the sorry whore you are.”

“I’m sure your father would have thought the same of you. Disgracing yourself at the dinners, having Theon kneel between your legs, his mouth busy between your thighs while you tried to pretend you weren’t panting for it like a bitch.”

_His name isn’t Theon._

Ramsay barks out a laugh, borne of sheer shock. The balls on this bitch. Where did they come from? “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her lashes lower and her fine eyebrows arch. She’s amused, even without smiling or laughing. “Don’t I?”

Ramsay doesn’t allow himself to dwell on the events in question. Doesn’t dwell on remembering how Reek would sit between his legs, curled up against one calf, eyes staring upward at him, starving. Desperate for any scraps. The way he would whine and warble like a broken toy if Ramsay stroked his matted, thin hair. His collar, proof of ownership, proudly on display around his neck.

The way Ramsay would look down and utter so only Reek could hear, ‘ _unlace my britches, Reek. I’ll feed you plenty. Put it in your mouth. Now, Reek, not tomorrow. Ah. Ah! Yes. That’s a good boy.’_ He’d drink his wine, try to focus on talking to people around him, all while his pet worked his cock, slurping away, pathetically eager for his belly to be filled with Ramsay’s seed. Eager, because Reek knew it might be his only dinner. When his release approached, Ramsay would grip Reek’s hair and press him deep into his crotch, face red and flushed with pleasure, eyes nearly rolling in his head, whispering, ‘ _Swallow your dinner down, Reek. Fill your belly with my cum. Good boy, so good. Yes. Eager slut. Disgusting whore. Here it is. Mhm. Isn’t your master so good for feeding you?’_

And Reek would whine weakly, eyes teary and mouth swollen from use, squeaking, ‘ _y-yes, Master is good. Reek is undeserving.’_

_‘Is your belly full, Reek? Are you satisfied? Or do you still want dinner from your master’s plate?’_

And, as always, Reek knew better than to presume, knew better than to ask for more than he deserved. _‘No, master. Reek is full. You fed h-him w-well. Good Reek. Meek Reek.”_

Sometimes, if Ramsay were feeling particularly awful, he’d order Reek to hold his cock in his mouth throughout dinner, to keep him warm and ready.

If the dinner guests weren’t especially important people, Ramsay would order Reek on his hands and knees in front of him under the table, would order him to try and impale himself on Ramsay’s hard member, to try and fuck himself on his erection. Reek always cried pathetically when told to do this, because it was difficult to do in their current positions.

The memory makes Ramsay’s cock stiffen visibly and Sansa snorts in disgust. “You’re vile.” Making her way to the exit, Sansa utters, “I grow weary of your company. Until next time, Lord Bolton. Have sweet dreams of Theon and know that I’m taking good care of him.”

He snarls after her, voicing ever terrible thing he can possibly think of, every demeaning memory of her crying in her bed, whipped and fucked into shreds. A pathetic whore to be used and abused, left to rot and nothing else.

Sansa ignores him, smirking with calculated bitterness as she walks away.

If Theon Greyjoy is going to be her method of torture, the method will be precise and handled with care.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

  
The wretched creature Reek slumbers, deep in Theon’s mind. A maimed creature, empty of independence, flayed into being, an open maw of starvation, worship, and depravity.

If he’s lucky, Reek will never awaken again.

Unfortunately, Theon Greyjoy is never lucky.  
  


* * *

 _  
“Look at me.”_ Yara’s voice is firm, like a storm approaching across the sea.

Looking at anyone hurts. Meeting their gaze no longer comes naturally. Above all, Theon hates seeing pity and disgust reflected back at him, full of disappointment. Reek…well, Reek could care less, for Reek only ever cared for his master and his whims.

Ramsay Bolton’s opinions were the only ones that mattered to Reek…but Theon cannot be the creature his master created with such care. Not anymore. Sansa had dug through the murky mind of Reek, screamed until Theon could hear her voice, all those awful nights in Winterfell.

Ramsay unmade Theon Greyjoy. Sansa clawed him out of his grave.

Out Theon had crawled, from the shattered and broken depths of his mind. Unwillingly, he came forth, just to protect her. Sansa Stark. His lady fair.

And now, he’s returned to the Islands that were never quite his home. To his sister, to face her iron wrath, her cold disgust. He wants to believe that he can find himself a home at her feet, serving her. He needs a master and he fears that he always will.

Out of all of Ramsay’s terrible crimes, perhaps one of the most abysmal is the fact that he took Theon’s confidence away, took away his ability to have his own initiatives. He’s made him feel like he needs someone greater than him to guide Theon’s path.

It’s pathetic.

Yara examines him in front of her hearth, an expression of disgust on her face. _“You were my brother. You were a spoiled little cunt, but I risked everything for you.”_ Her words are like knives, full of family duty and resentment.

All he can do is pledge his loyalty to her. He will follow her, his iron sister, if only she gives him a home. A dog needs a place to sleep at night.

And thus, his sister puts him through the paces with merciless intent. The weeks pass, their travels vary, and slowly she warms to him, though it is never enough. Her men mock him, shame him with their knowing gazes. He suffers through watching them with whores, suffers watching the unburdened way they continue about their lives.

The way that Theon never will.

Yara tells him, “He unmade you, but the sea is still your home, your calling. It’s still your soul. Bolton doesn’t own your soul, devil though he may be.”

 _How can you be sure,_ he wants to ask, to sob. Alone at night, Theon dreams of such horrors and of some things that aren’t horror at all, but _should be_. Dreams of his master’s hand in his hair, the pleased smile gracing his lips. The warmth of a blanket being thrown over him, as he sleeps on the floor at the foot of Ramsay’s bed.

To sip from his wine cup, when Ramsay has had enough. Intimate, in that Reek can taste his master’s lips on the smooth cup edge as he sips greedily.

The horrors, though…are too many to count. These memories are mostly Reek’s, from the point where Theon’s mind truly, utterly broke. There was a period he pretended to be Reek, answered to that name, just to avoid pain. He wasn’t Reek…not until…not until he finally cracked and Theon faded away for a very, very long time, never to be found again.

He faintly recalls being trapped on his hands and knees, with Ramsay hissing in his ear, drunk as only Ramsay could be, wanting to play a game, wanting to see if a eunuch could still spill seed. “ _If you come, the game stops! That’s all, that’s the whole game, Reek!”_

It sounded simple, in theory, but Ramsay's intent included his men and Theon Greyjoy’s body had never been taken by a man before. It took longer than he cared to recall, and frankly, Theon doesn’t know much about the memory. His simply remembers the sweet scent of Ramsay’s breath, of Damon holding him down, and Skinner kneeling behind him. Many other of Ramsay’s men were in the room, evil smiles on their faces.

Waiting a turn.

After that, Theon knows know more. It’s all a black blur in his mind. It’s the first time that Reek truly took the wheel, leaving Theon to die in a grave of his own making.

He is only grateful that his master did not often choose such a game for sport. If they did play it again, Theon can only recall it being the two of them alone, in his master’s room. He would have begged for it to only be his master, only him, forever. 

“I’ve heard that Winterfell has been retaken by the Stark’s,” Yara mentions offhand, watching him carefully.

His heart stops beating. He nearly whines with shame that the first thing that comes to his mind is fear for his master. If he’s _alive_. If he’s _dead_. If someone has harmed Ramsay Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.

 _Reek’s master_.

“The Stark’s?” His voice sounds hoarse from disuse. No one truly engages in conversation with him. He’s often an ignored piece of scenery, aside from the looks of distaste and dislike. “Which ones?”

“The bastard and his sister, Sansa.”

_Sansa._

There’s a pull inside his chest, as if telling him to go…to return to her side. He’s not found home here, with his own sister.

Perhaps, perhaps his place is still in the North. Perhaps it always will be.  
  


* * *

  
Yara doesn’t stop him from leaving.

Perhaps she understands that he is neither a kraken nor wholly a wolf.

And a part of him will always be a flayed man.

Forever. Until he’s dead.  
  


* * *

  
Theon returns to Sansa’s side and he’s akin to a beaten dog, tired and weary. Looking for a warm hearth and a pair of feet to lay his head down upon. He comes back to her, as if realizing there’s no other place he’d rather be.

World weary and empty of everything. Empty, but for the screams in his mind. Alone, but for sniveling Reek, always twitching somewhere in the back of his thoughts.

Though it is likely a needless act, he _returns_.

Theon likes to believe it’s an act to make amends for all the wrong he ever did. He tells himself it has nothing to do with the fact that he wants to be by Sansa’s side (except, he _does_ want to be with her), if the end is indeed crawling ever closer. He wants to die close to the only home he ever had.

 _Winterfell_.

So much has changed since he was last within the walls. No longer do the Bolton banners fly, grotesque and intimidating in their vicious glory. The flayed man no longer adorns the halls. The ramparts fly the flag of old, the direwolf. Seeing it makes Theon feel like falling back in time, as if he can maybe forget all that happened to him these past few years.

As if he can even pretend that none of it occurred, that Eddard Stark is just inside, with all his sternness and deep wisdom. That Robb is going to be strutting around the courtyard, full of his smiles and self-righteousness. Arya, the eternal tomboy, causing mayhem. Oh, can’t forget Jon, his deep, dark eyes, full of soulful torment.

Theon knows something about torment. His gut twists, his memories a plague. 

A ghostly whisper- _What’s. Your. Name._ He shudders…and not from the cold.

It seems, that though the walls are decorated in Stark colors, the flayed man still haunts the hallways in Theon’s frail mind. Echoes of cruel japes and sneers, blood and gore in meaningless excess. Bright, pale eyes, like the autumn moon, eyes that strip him bare.

When Sansa receives him, the now familiar Dragon Queen at her side, Theon almost fears that Sansa will turn him away, that perhaps he was wrong in coming. _Perhaps she doesn’t want him near, he’s an awful reminder of all the things-_

Her embrace is warm and full of welcome, even as the pale Dragon Queen watches on with vague irritation. Sansa, it seems, cares very little for the opinion of the other woman, focusing only on Theon. So much, in fact, that Theon wants to weep. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispers into his ear, full of relief. “I wasn’t sure you’d ever return.” She’s lovely, as if cut from stone, despite the warmth of her body.

“This is my h-home.”

It’s true, he thinks. Wherever she is, Theon must be as well.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Days pass, spent with them walking together in the godswood. Most of the Northmen give him odd looks, but he’s used to this by now. He’s used to mistrust and dislike. His sister’s men liked to mock him, but these men despise him and the shadows that follow in his footsteps.

They despise him for _who_ he served. _Who_ he knelt to, on hands and knees. Suspicious. Theon cannot begrudge them this deep mistrust. The two boys he murdered are only one of the reasons people loathe him.

Sansa…she makes up for all of it. His lady.

She is not cruel, nor is she unfair. He always knows where he stands with her, and how he can best serve her. There was a time when he would have laughed at wanting to serve another person, but now it’s all he can imagine doing.

He’s barely a man, after all. He doesn’t know what he is and he’s lost; Theon needs Sansa to tether him to this reality, this life. He shouldn’t be so selfish, wanting to be at her side, because Sansa’s people dislike her fondness for him. Yet, he can’t _stop_.

Being selfish is something that’s familiar to Theon. He used to be selfish, prideful, needful.

There are nights, when they manage to be alone, that he will kneel and kiss her soft feet. Begging to serve her however she pleases. Seeking forgiveness for all his many wrongs. Her fingers burying themselves in his hair, now grown again, guiding him with gentleness. Sansa is an easy master.

_Shouldn’t think that way, she wouldn’t want me to think of her like that…_

Yet, he cannot stop. He needs to be owned, because if he is not, where does he belong?

Her hands are so soft as they crawl across his skin, caressing his neck. He bares his throat, even though she is not the type to set her teeth to his flesh. Sometimes, he gets it mixed up, thinks of what his _other master_ would have wanted.

Reek is made nervous by the way that Theon touches his master’s lady wife. Theon tries to ignore the whispers from the broken creature in his mind.

One night, shortly after his arrival, she holds him in her arms as they comfort each other. “How do you sleep?”

His throat feels tight and it’s hard to speak. “Not well, my Lady.”

“I must confess, my own nightmares wake me as well,” she admits sadly.

Nothing needs to be spoken about _the why_.

His dreams are full of torture and pain, but also deep relief upon the sight of his master telling him that he’s pleased. The scent of Ramsay’s skin as Reek bathes him, clean and fresh, like the forest. The smell of hound on his gloves, as he grips Reek’s face, staring down into his eyes with mocking intent. The bitten of sounds he would make when he took Reek from behind, while Reek used his tongue to prepare Lady Sansa-

Her dreams are full of broken things. Betrayal after betrayal. Her father’s head. Joffrey’s odious, spoiled demeanor. Tyrion’s pitying glances. Ramsay Bolton’s sadistic smile, on their wedding night, the sounds of a broken creature that used to be Theon Greyjoy crying on the bed beside her. Of Ramsay’s hounds and the horrid things he threated to do to her with them. Of Reek, kneeling eagerly at his feet, like a dog himself, _Ramsay’s favorite dog_ -

Even though it would be better to forget it all, Sansa finds that what broke her has made her stronger, more like steel. More like a wolf. Theon is part of her pack, though he is certainly weak and in need of her protection.

“I’ve heard the men whispering that you will need to take a new husband soon-”

“Let them talk,” Sansa replies quietly. “I have no need for another man who seeks to control me, to use me for his own ends. You, however…”

Her fingers brush across the front of his loose trousers, soft and gentle. His body stiffens, heart leaping into his throat. “Lady Sansa, you shouldn’t-”

“Will you serve me?” Her question is layered. “Will you stay with me, until the end of this world?”

“Of course, _oh_ , my Lady, please, no-”

She exposes him, looks at his greatest shame. She has seen it before, though she has never touched it, never run her wet fingertips across the sensitive nub of his scarred, swollen flesh. She does this now, watching him carefully, briefly enjoying her power over him. It's easy for her to see why her vicious, controlling husband craved him so. Ramsay loved his power over the man beside her now. The man that she's touching.

Theon arches his back and keens with shame at the liquid feeling of desire racing through his body.

It is not for dogs like him to feel pleasure at their master’s hand.

“You’ve never demanded a thing from me, other than to be at my side.” Sansa does not flinch from his body, his ruined canvas. “You saved me.”

Theon loves and hates that her touches are soft, careful. There are parts of him that want aggression and firm, rough, possessive grasps at his flesh. He almost _wants to be used_. His master taught him that was all he was good for.

Despite his own anxiety and his broken mind, Theon finds himself flushed with heat and want, panting under her seeking fingers.

“You see? He is not the only one that knows how to touch you,” she whispers against his hipbone. “…and I am by far superior to him.”

He almost tells her not to say that, no one is above Ramsay, but he bites his fist instead and groans.

Sansa is a wonder to behold, and she is gentle and patient, soothing as she coos to him sweetly. Fueled by the fact that Theon doesn’t love her because he fears her…he loves her for her quiet strength and perseverance.

She guides his palm to her own familiar mound and he knows what to do. Ramsay never gave her pleasure, but he ordered Reek to prepare her often. _She’s dry as a bone,_ he’d always complain nastily, _you’ll do it, or I’ll make her wet with her own blood. Your choice, Reek._

Theon tries to push that voice out of his head, but it’s hard, because sometimes that’s the voice he hears more than his own.

When his release comes, it dribbles out over her fingers and she praises him. Her voice almost shifts into Ramsay’s.

“How did you know. How did you…?” He doesn’t know what he’s asking, as sweat dries on his chest and his seed soaks her sheets.

“I watched him with you a time or two, if you recall.”

“I try not to.”

But, he does. He does remember. He remembers in vivid color.

He also remembers that his master wouldn’t have liked them touching each other like this, alone, with affection. Lord Ramsay would have been livid, to know his Reek had been touched by Sansa in this manner. Their affection, if one could call it that, was only supposed to be directed at Ramsay.  
  
  


* * *

The next night, something changes. Intangible. Something inside of Sansa uncoils, like a silent predator, a shadow visible in her eyes as she stares into an orange flame.

They sit alone, beside the crackling fire on the first floor of the chilly keep. The scent of the fire is soothing, and the sight of it dancing is hypnotic in a way that Theon can’t describe.

It reminds him of Sansa’s hair and he loves the way the firelight dances across her beautiful tresses.

She’s sitting across from him, just an arm’s length away. Still, as only a wolf can be, waiting for the perfect moment. “Theon.” Sansa speaks his name and he tries not to cringe, the shadow of his former self shuddering. Reek’s skin crawls when he hears the name Theon.

“Y-yes, my Lady?”

Her hands are folded in her lap. Her chin lifts. A proud she-wolf. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something. For a time.”

He waits, silently. Looks at her with Theon’s eyes, dreading what she may be about to unveil.

Her voice is strangely flat. “I kept a souvenir for you. After Jon and I retook Winterfell.”

The words don’t mean much to Reek.

 _Theon, your name is Theon._ He has to remind himself, but sometimes it can be hard to remember when he’s here, in the very placed filled with echoes of his many humiliations. In this very room.

“What does my Lady mean?” The words are croaked. He tries to enunciate clearly, to stop sounding unsure of himself. It’s a hard habit to break; it’s been cut and beaten into him.

When she meets his gaze, her eyes are a whirl of beautiful blues. Something wild is coiling in those depths, a certain excitement. Something akin to bloodlust. The wolf is staring at him.

“I have _him,_ Theon. In the dungeon.”

The world stops entirely, with those few words. There is no mistaking her meaning, not with her hushed voice. Not with that look in her eye.

Theon’s thin frame seems to collapse in on itself, his vision flickering oddly. His mouth is moving, but no sound spills from his throat. If she sees his mouth frantically trying to form the word ‘ _milord,’_ she does not comment.

His breathing shifts and his mangled fingers twitch in a showing of violent emotion, held back. For a moment, he says nothing to her, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. Sansa is watching him with patient care, probably wondering if Theon will stay true to himself or if he will degrade, hide behind the wreckage of his psyche.

Unfortunately, he finds himself sliding out of his seat, sinking down to the floor, as if it will ground him. He heaves a bit, gasping for air, stars in his vision. Remaining fingers scrabbling at the stone beneath him.

_He’s somewhere belowground. Alone. Probably cold. Master won’t like that. He’ll be angry. Dangerous. He needs his Reek. Master-_

Violently, Theon tries to push Reek back into the darkness of his mind. The screeching creature is wailing, as if sightless and deaf, clawed hands reaching upward to find his master so Reek can throw himself at Ramsay’s feet.

He tries to hold on to his thin sanity, to ignore Reek’s rampant tantrums in his skull. “Why…why didn’t you…k-kill h-him?”

Theon’s teeth chatter. He won’t meet her gaze, instead, staring into the distance.

He feels himself getting cold. Why is he shivering so terribly?

In a swift motion, Sansa wraps a fur pelt around his shoulders, tightly. Enclosing him in its warm embrace for comfort. Gracefully, she slides down to kneel beside him and his shivering form. She clasps his ruined hands, holding them in her own.

Oh, the feeling of kinship is so strong when she’s with him. A bond forged in their suffering. Only he understands her. Only he can know what haunts her dreams. Only she understands who haunts his.

“Theon, look at me.” Slowly, he does, brokenness in his expression, spearing Sansa’s heart. She continues softly, “Would you have felt better to return and find out I’d had him executed? Already a corpse in the ground, in a nameless grave? Never to be found or whispered of again?”

He wants to lie to her. He wants to say ‘yes’. Shame, guilt, and horror are ripping through him, terribly so. “He hurt you,” is all he can manage to utter. “I didn’t- I didn’t want him to harm you. I couldn’t stop hi-”

Sansa nods, caressing his cheek, eyes searching his face. His appearance has much improved, after his time with his sister. Color in his cheeks again, filled out a little better with proper food. Eyes brighter, hair less brittle. “Yes. And he hurt you more. _And for longer_.”

A sob tears from his throat. Reek is mentally clawing at his own face with ragged, bitten nails, blood streaking everywhere. Spittle drips from Reek’s maw as he wails, _Master was good, he never hurt us, he made Reek **better** -_

 _No,_ Theon wants to cry, wants to shove the creature of his worst days into the abyss, _no, he didn’t. He ruined me._

Reek hisses at him, baring unclean teeth. Theon shudders, trying not to display the chaos in his mind to Sansa.

“Theon. Theon calm down. Shhh. I’m here.” Sansa says as she embraces him, trying to ease his trembling. “I understand what this means for you. How hard it is. Ramsay was your world in a way that he never was mine _._ ”

“I…I thought he was dead. He’s…he’s been here? This whole time?” The idea of it horrifies him. Thrills him. Agonizes him. Theon’s feelings are a tornado of despair. He can’t separate what is Reek and what is himself.

Reek is desperate to be with his master again, to serve. To bow down so low, to feel the cold sting of those icy eyes upon him. To rub his cheek against his fine boots, to lick his fingertips with the simple mindlessness of a favored hound.

Theon is simply terrified, because he’s walking around like a ghost of himself and Ramsay is going to be livid.

 _You’re supposed to be dead dead dead,_ Reek is crowing in his brain, crazed. _Master won’t want to see you. He wants his creature, his Reek. Weak Reek, Freak Reek._

Theon groans sickly. “I don’t want to see him. I _can’t_ see him, Sansa.”

The urge to run is so strong.

“I know…it doesn’t feel like one, but this is my gift to you, Theon. You can choose when he dies. When you’re ready to bury him.”

_What…?! Has she lost her mind?_

“You can’t trust me with him,” Theon says quickly, a different fear bubbling up inside. “If he asks me to help him, I can’t say no. _I can’t ignore milord_.”

_I don’t trust myself._

“You are not Reek. Not _anymore_. Ramsay cannot make you do anything, Theon. You don’t belong to him.” She pauses. “He’s very ill, Theon. His wounds are…infected.”

Stilling like a stone, Theon pulls away from her, a sharp look in his eyes. “What have you done to him, Sansa?” It’s a mix of Reek and himself, melding together.

Her gaze is as cold as her voice. “Only what he deserves. Come with me, in the morning. I will take you to him.”

Ducking his head, Theon cowers, shamefully. “No. I won’t. Don’t ask this of me. _Please_.”

Sansa will not be swayed, though pity is in her gaze.  
  
  


* * *

Despite his own screaming thoughts, Theon accompanies her the next day, hearing a familiar voice, though slurred with pain and fever, echoing off the stone walls. Every muscle in his body freezes, keeping him from taking another step.

He and Sansa are paused outside the closed door and she watches as Theon trembles, his eyes wide and unseeing.

“He’s been out of it for days.” Sansa’s voice is calm, prim. “He’s delirious. He won’t even know you’re there.”

Theon feels like his soul is being laid bare and it’s sickening. He can’t bear her to witness the way he feels like falling apart. “Will you please…go?”

Sansa gives him a curious look. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” He doesn’t want her to see what he knows is going to happen next. His legs are barely holding him up.

The moment she walks away, her soft footsteps fading, he sinks to the floor, pressing his body against the wooden door, listening, just listening to the sound of his master’s voice. Ramsay is mostly unintelligible, and his screams of agony set Theon’s spine on fire.

Despite hearing this proof that his lord is alive and weakened, Theon cannot enter. He remains, for hours perhaps, just listening, punishing himself.

Reek is whimpering in his mind, trying to cover his ears. The sound of Ramsay’s pain is hurting him in ways that Theon cannot begin to describe.

It’s excruciating, listening to Ramsay in this state. Absurdly, it feels like his heart is breaking. Briefly, Theon hates himself, hates that he can't feel glee at his master's pain. Instead, the sound of his pain makes Theon feel as if he's suffering right along with him. He's sick and wrong, this is not the correct reaction one should have for their torturer! Yet, it's how he feels and Theon chokes back his own sobs of despair. He is truly broken. 

He doesn’t enter the room. Not that day.

But the next, he does, propelled forth by the urge to make the screams stop.  
  
  


* * *

Nothing in the world could have prepared Theon for this.

His master is tied down on his back, on a flat rack. Sweat glistens on his body, from fever, along with various red slices and wounds. There’s a flayed part of flesh on his arm and on his chest-

Theon moans as if he’s the one dying.

He almost sinks to the floor again and Reek is spluttering in terror, seeing the word carved into Ramsay’s skin. _Bastard._

_He wouldn’t want that there, he’s not a bastard, he’s Lord Bolton, fix it, make him better, this would hurt milord, to see that word…_

These thoughts are messy and full of sorrow, agony. For a brief, blinding moment, he feels rage towards Sansa, of all people, knowing she did this to Ramsay. The feeling fades quickly, because Theon reminds himself that he and Sansa cope with their pain and shame in different ways.

Sansa was Ramsay’s bad, ill-trained hound. Reek was his loyal beast.

Ramsay’s breathing is terribly shallow and his eyes are closed. He’s like a fallen angel with a dark halo and Theon is afraid of being in his presence. He feels undeserving. For a few horrid moments, Theon can’t move; he can only stare, remembering _everything_. Every horrid moment.

Every shameful moment.

Remembers what it feels like to belong to another man. Realizes that he _never stopped_ belonging to him. That’s the realization that burns the most.

When Theon gains enough strength to move forward, he grabs a cloth and dips it in the nearby water basin, collecting up clean wraps. The wounds are infected, Sansa said. He can help clean them. He can do _something_.

When he sits down beside the object of his nightmares, Theon gently places the cool, wet cloth on his forehead, feeling how hot Ramsay’s skin is. When he looks down, those pale eyes are open, focused on him. Theon’s heart nearly stops in his chest.

Like an icy storm, Ramsay’s eyes dance over his face with a fuzzy hint of confusion and fever, as if unsure he believes he’s actually seeing Theon. Recognition blossoms, pupils still trying to focus. His breathing stutters a bit and he inhales sharply, as if scenting Theon on the air.

The laugh that Ramsay makes is familiar, full of bitterness. _“Well_. Look at you. A ghost.”

He doesn’t have enough confidence in himself to talk back to Ramsay. Too afraid of what will spill from his lips. Afraid he might simply become Reek.

There’s an easiness about Ramsay, softened by sickness. Softened by the fact that he doesn’t believe that Theon is truly beside him. He thinks this is all a dream, so Theon sits and cleans his wounds, wrapping them. He’s terrified and in awe of his master, with how weak he is in this moment.

With how relaxed his features are, despite being pinched in occasional pain. He marvels at his body, dismayed to see all the scars, all the marks on his flesh. Theon’s master always had perfect skin-

Ramsay is sneering now, lips curled in the manner that makes Theon’s belly flip nervously. Those teeth. Those perfect teeth. He remembers how they feel against his flesh. His master is saying, “If I told you to undo the restraints on me, holding me down, would you do it?”

_Oh, no._

Panic. Sheer panic. His heart stops and Reek nearly takes the wheel, gleefully. Anything to serve his master, to set him free, let him loose. They will be together again, Reek will be taken care of forever, until he’s dead, _until they are both dead_.

They can flee the North, live far away, just the two of them. Just Reek and his master, alone, their nights full of torment and agonized adoration, so keen and sharp that nothing could ever tear them apart. Those cruel hands, on his hips, vicious words in his ears, the deep thrusts, claiming every part of Reek’s body and soul.

The soft kisses down his spine and the mocking words. The humiliation. _Tell me you love me, say it, I want to hear your whore mouth say it-_

_-of c-course, milord, I l-love y-you, always._

A cock, firming inside of him, heat filling his insides as his master cums deep inside, growling his ecstasy.

Theon takes back his mind, but only barely. He throws Reek back, trying hard to stay faithful to his lady Sansa. He cannot set Ramsay free. He cannot untie him. He can provide comfort and care, but nothing more.

So, instead, he touches his face, strokes his skin. His jawline. Marvels at how his master sighs into his touch, eyelashes fluttering. Body relaxing, if only for a moment. Then, Ramsay is back in form, trying to reassert his dominance. The dangerous way he asks who told Theon to touch him so casually. As if he _hated it_.

Theon knows he didn’t, he knows his master’s body. It’s hard for Ramsay to hide his true feelings when he’s weak like this. This man, who was never freely given affection. Theon knows he craves it, craves being worshipped and adored.

Why else would Ramsay have made Theon into a subservient companion, if he were not seeking to be revered without thought or question? If his submission didn’t fill Ramsay’s need to dominate and control? To own and possess?

It’s not even a surprise when Ramsay walks back his cruel inquiry and then meekly demands that Theon touch him more. He peers down at Ramsay’s face, so innocent when he’s not being vicious. Theon hates that part of him that would die for this man, without question.

Hates that his fingers shake when he touches Ramsay again.

For a few peaceful moments, there is no venom. No poisonous words or hateful looks. Theon is able to care for this nightmarish man, even though his heart still flutters with fear. Then, it all goes sideways as Ramsay begins to dwell on Reek’s betrayal, how Theon took control and saved Sansa from Winterfell.

 _“You fucking sniveling traitor_. I’m going to _wring your scrawny neck_ -”

Theon’s vision pales in sheer terror, because this is the voice that promises whips and flaying knives. This sounds the most like his lord. Theon flees in the face of his stinging wrath, the vicious fury and betrayal in Ramsay’s voice. Full of pain and hate.

“ _Reek!_ I’m not done talking to you, _stupid wretch_!”

The wretched being inside of Theon wails and claws at his own eyes, feeling compelled to throw himself to the ground. Theon’s knees quiver with the urge, but he stands as strong as he can. He flees the room, unable to face the object of his world any longer.

He’s unable to listen to the hurt in his voice.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“How long is…is…he to stay down there?” He shouldn’t ask, but it’s been tormenting him. Clinging to his thoughts, claws sunk deep. He can’t sleep, shadows are in his eyes. Sleepless, haunted.

Sansa flips one of her cards over, a slight smile curving her fine lips. She places it down face up, waiting for Theon to make his next move. Her hands return to her lap. She seems unaffected by his question. “I don’t know, Theon. As long as it takes, I suppose.”

_She wants you to pull him from your soul. She wants you to kill his memory and move on. To let go._

“What…what if I’m never r-ready?” His voice quavers embarrassingly, his doubts and fears creeping through.

How can she ask this of him?

Sansa’s eyes are roving his face calmly, not disturbed by his voiced concern of impending failure. “Eventually, you will be. When that day comes, you’ll be ready to let go. When you are, I’ll be here to make sure it’s done. It will be worth it, Theon. You will be at peace, when you lay him to rest.”

Reek is screaming somewhere in his mind, clawing at his own skin, horrified. Theon tries to maintain control, to not let the shrieking, mindless creature show through his eyes. “You’d have him executed? He’s…your husband…”

At this, Sansa gives him a dry look, as if to say, _and what’s your point?_ After a tense moment of silence, she examines her hand of cards. An act meant to hide her instinctive reaction, which Theon assumes is to be unpleasant. Not that he blames her.

“If a dog becomes rabid, it’s put down, is it not?”

Theon swallows thickly. “Of course. But…”

He doesn’t know how to explain the maelstrom of emotions inside of him, tearing him apart. His mangled hands are shaking and Theon has the sudden urge to sit on them, to try and hide his shame.

Perhaps he will never be rid of this hideousness inside of him. This mad, sick love for a horrid man. The monster who killed and remade Theon, who became his everything. His air, his breath, his food. Every inhale, spent wondering about his master, fearing him, needing him.

She sees his doubts and her lips firm. “You’re stronger than this, Theon.”

 _I’m not,_ he thinks. _I could never hurt him. I could only ever beg._

_I am what he made me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Comments and kudos are loved!
> 
> OMG, Theon you are so fucking angsty T.T
> 
> One disclaimer note: The following Yara lines are from the show:  
> "Look at me."  
> "You were my brother. You were a spoiled little cunt, but I risked everything for you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN:** ack, I have more polishing that I can do here, but wanted to at least get it posted! I've read this over too many times and each time I do, I add a new scene, and that needs to stop T.T 
> 
> That and work is just wrecking me right now. I don't even know how I function under this much stress, to be honest. Must be why I want to write dreadful shit XD

Theon can’t find the strength to leave his chamber the next day. Nor can he find the will to leave it the day after. His soul feels dark, plagued by a certain weight that he can’t escape. It’s the sensation of falling into a pit and there’s no escape; _maybe he doesn’t want to escape_.

It’s depression, he realizes through the fog of his mind. He’s being crushed by a responsibility that he doesn’t want. A painful boulder, crushing him down. Mashing his bones and his innards into nothing. Guts, guts, stinking guts and gore in his brain.

Sansa finds him wrapped up in a nest of blankets on the floor beside the bed he’s supposed to be sleeping in. His master never gave him permission to sleep in a bed, so-

Sinking to the cold stone beside him, Sansa digs through the blankets, searching for his weary face. “Come now.” She’s using her motherly voice, the one she always used on Arya. “This is absurd. There’s no need to hide in your room.”

“’M not hiding.”

“Well, you aren’t doing much of anything at all, I dare say.” Her eyes take note of the pristine bed, the one that hasn’t been touched. Her jaw tightens subtly. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“You don’t want to know.” _You’ll hate me,_ he thinks miserably. _I can’t bear for you to hate me._

“I do, actually. It’s why I asked.”

He sniffs, his eyes red and puffy. He barely meets her gaze as he whispers, “Please. Don’t hurt him anymore.”

Sansa’s mouth stiffens for only a moment, but she recovers quickly enough. “I can’t promise that.” Sansa kisses his forehead, to show him she’s not displeased. In fact, she likely expected this reaction, even if it irritated her. “He’s well now, if you were wondering. Quite lucid. Back to his awful self. You’ll love it.”

Theon whines and tries to sink into nothing. He wants to be a worm in a grave, disgusting and long forgotten. He’d had a terrible time managing even a sickly Ramsay. He doesn’t want to imagine facing a non-delirious Ramsay.

“He’s asking for you, of course.”

Theon’s stomach flips and his heart tries to evict itself from his ribcage.

“I’m not r-ready. I’m not ready to see him _. Again_. I’m sorry.”

Sansa smiles endearingly, handing him a steaming cup of tea. “That’s fine. I told him I was keeping you away from him. It chafes him, to imagine I’m preventing his favorite from crawling to his side.” She makes a vague gesture with her hand, flippant. “You know how he gets.”

Oh, yes. Theon knows.  
  


* * *

* * *

  
  
Sansa expected that it would be hard for Theon.

She foolishly didn’t expect it to be quite _this hard_.

Days and days pass until finally, she has to force him to leave the safety of his chambers. “You are Theon Greyjoy. Get out of this room.”

“I’d rather not.” Theon’s tone would remind her of a sullen child if he didn’t sound so utterly vacant of emotion.

“He’s not roaming the halls. You aren’t going to come across him at breakfast. Nor at supper. Nor will you trip over him while moping about the courtyard.” Sansa purses her lips. Sniffs. “You need a bath. Do you realize that?”

It pains her that he looks horrified at the concept. For a second, she sees the _other_ personality that dwells inside of Theon, the one that he tries to suppress so hard. The creature that Ramsay had carved into him.

Quickly as it came, Reek disappears from Theon’s eyes and he looks distraught. His head hangs low as he mutters, “I’d forgotten…I didn’t think…”

Sansa’s heart aches, to think she may have caused him this crisis of the spirit. Unfortunately, some things must be done. “Bath first. Then, outside. You need fresh air. Small steps. You’ve locked yourself in a cage of your own making, Theon. Let yourself out.”

Selfishly, Sansa needs him. If he can’t find the strength to visit the dungeon again, how will she be able to put more dents in her dreadful husband’s mental armor? She’s already seen the changes, just from Ramsay realizing that his pet hasn’t come to set him free.

It’s gnawing at him, like a rat on a corpse.

As much as this pleases Sansa, she needs _more_.

It’s not to say that she’s willing to harm Theon in the process. No. That isn’t her intent.

She will make him _stronger_. She will take all his pain, his ruin, and she will create a new Theon. A Theon that is free.

But, first things first.

“I’ll call the servants to bring you a hot bath.”

He gives her a look. “You really don’t need to do that-”

The servants bring the steaming water in short order. Sansa dismisses them and Theon gives her a look, likely about to tell her that _people will talk, the servants always talk._

He should know by now that Sansa _doesn’t care_.

She smiles at him, full of knowing. “I’ll help you.”

Theon exhales, resigned.

Like a child, he allows her to pull his clothes from his body. She holds his lovely eyes, so that he knows she holds no judgement, nor does she hold disgust for him. She helps him into the bath and runs the warm water over his scarred flesh, listens to the way he sighs.

He’s a thousand miles away, his stare fixed on the wall, as if seeing something from a long time ago.  
  


* * *

* * *

  
The world seems bigger and darker when Theon leaves his chambers.

He spends the next few days adjusting to the sensation of roaming Winterfell without having to look over his shoulder, just as it was when he first arrived and hadn’t a clue that his master was in the dungeons, alive.

A few times, he finds himself lost in his own head, frozen in place. Lost in a strange daze, eyes near sightless as he stares off at nothing. Once or twice, someone taps him on the shoulder with an odd look, questioning his sanity, clearly.

His hands tremble often. Memories of knives touching his flesh, a sharp grin, a painfully distinct voice that always made him crumble inside. _Still_ makes him crumble.

_ {“Get on your knees, Reek.”} _

It doesn’t feel right. Knowing Ramsay is here, knowing that he isn’t in control. Theon can’t stop the pull in his chest, the sensation that he needs to beg for forgiveness, that he needs to snivel at Ramsay’s feet. Sansa has so many expectations of Theon…and the weight is heavy on his heart.

A cruel lisp echoes in his head, mocking him and his dilemma. _Aww….poor Reek. Is Sansa making things…hard for you? Is…is she making you think? I never made you think. I only asked for…obedience. Obey. That’s all. That’s the game. See? I’m **easy**._

Theon shudders, feeling his teeth chatter together terribly.

_ {“Be a good boy...open your mouth…”} _

His remaining fingers scrabble at his scalp briefly, wanting to rip and tear. The pain makes him feel safe.

It’s familiar.  
  


* * *

When Theon finally finds the strength to visit Ramsay, he shocked to find that he’s no longer strapped down on the flat rack. Instead, there are shackles on his wrists, connected to the stone wall of the dungeon. He’s sitting across the room, eyes luminous and wicked as Theon steps through the doorway.

The air damn near freezes in Theon’s lungs.

He tries to hide how timid he is, but it’s hard. It’s near impossible to be brave and strong when those eyes are watching him, stripping him to his naked soul. Those eyes, the ones who have been witness to some of Theon’s greatest shames.

A flayed man has no secrets, after all.

His master is in better shape than before, though it isn’t saying much. He’s lucid, very much so. Eyes bright and full of malicious fire. His lip is cut, bloodied slightly, dark bruising under his eyes. The skin at his wrists looks raw, even from where Theon is standing.

The words carved into his chest have been re-opened by a deft hand. On _purpose_.

“Don’t I make a lovely picture?” The words a sarcastic, self-depreciating.

Theon doesn’t know how to respond, his tongue feeling thick and useless. Ramsay stares at him intently, as if trying to wordlessly move Theon into action. Theon can’t hold his gaze.

“No, I suppose? I thought not.” Ramsay spits out his t’s with particular violence.

 _This is a mistake. I shouldn’t be down here with him. Not when he’s like this,_ Theon thinks nervously, teeth near chattering in his jaw.

“It’s your fault I look like this.” Ramsay’s voice is almost amiable. “I’ve been waiting for you to be a good dog and free me from these chains.” Ramsay bares his teeth in a nasty smile, cut lip straining precariously. “If you let me out now, I may even lessen your punishment. You’ve been a naughty dog, but I _can_ be merciful. I’ve forgiven you before.”

The creature inside of Theon’s skull is babbling incoherently, a litany of gasps and squeals of terror and demented adoration. The urge to serve and avoid pain, avoid the knife. To avoid Ramsay’s displeasure. To remember what it feels like to be at Ramsay’s mercy, utterly and completely.

Swallowing with some difficulty, Theon steels himself. “I’m not here to set you free.”

Ramsay pulls a face, eyes flashing with a certain murderous emotion. “That’s…deeply disappointing. Why is my useless dog here then?”

 _He’ll flay you, he’ll take more bits, you’ve been a bad dog, Reek, Weak, Freak,_ the skeletal beast sings inside of Theon’s brain, a ruined voice and a parched tongue. Hideous and stinking of rot.

Swallowing, Theon forces the creature into a mental corner and locks it away. This is absolutely not the man to fall apart in front of. “…I…I”

Making a mocking, false stutter, Ramsay pouts out his busted lower lip and mimics Theon. “…I – I -I….do you even listen to yourself?”

Feeling his nerves burning, Theon grits his teeth and tries to not sink to the ground, to kneel desperately. “My Lord-”

It slips out before he can stop it and Theon regrets the blunder of providing respect instantly.

Baring his teeth, rattling his shackles, Ramsay growls, “Reek. Get me out of these accursed chains! _Now_!”

Theon feels his feet moving before he can stop himself. He only takes control just as he’s a few steps away from Ramsay, who looks only moderately pleased that he almost made Theon listen to his vicious command.

The displeasure that Theon didn’t completely obey…well, that’s still there. A shadow in his wintry gaze.

 _You cannot let him gain the upper hand. He’s the one in chains…not you._ Theon reminds himself of this. He’s been repeating it to himself all morning, trying to make it real in his head. Trying to set himself free of the chains in his own mind. The chains that Ramsay created.

“If you say that again, I’ll-”

“You’ll _what_?” Ramsay interrupts waspishly.

Meeting his intimidating gaze head on, Theon stiffens his shoulders and clenches his hands. “I’ll leave. I won’t come back. I’ll go back to the Iron Islands and forget you ever existed.”

This seems to give Ramsay pause. With a certain inattention to pain, he worries at his bloody lip with his teeth, the image making Theon feel uncomfortable. It makes him think of those same, cruel teeth at his mouth, the taste of copper on Theon’s tongue.

Somewhere, water is dripping, echoing in the silence.

Throat working, Ramsay gazes off to the side, sharp mind always calculating. “Those are bold words for a…slave…who will think of me every time he needs to take a piss. You think of me, don’t you? Every time you look. At. It?”

Oh, the cruelty of those words, perfectly selected. Punctuated and specific. The knowing, sadistic glee in Ramsay’s eyes, telling Theon that he’s thinking of the ruin between Theon’s thighs _right this second_.

Theon won’t dignify it with a response, though the shame and humiliation that fills him is near unbearable. What’s worse is the fact that Ramsay is right; there is no way Theon will ever forget the man who forever changed him, body and soul.

Ramsay has haunted his every step, ever since Theon escaped Winterfell with Sansa. Every. Single. Step.

Like a ghost, tethered to him, always whispering horror in his ears.

…and there’s Reek. The creature in the dark depths of his memory.

Ramsay sighs, his body posture deceptively relaxed.

“Has my wife been abusing you, Reek?”

Theon cringes, feeling a certain sliminess crawl up his spine, hearing those words. It’s at the tip of his tongue to tell Ramsay that he doesn’t answer to Reek anymore, but why fight that battle? He’s too weak, he’s not strong enough to hold fast if Ramsay pushes the matter.

His mouth moves, but no words come out. Ramsay frowns at him, saying, “You’d better not be letting her touch a single hair on your head. Not one. You hear me, mutt?”

Oh, but she _has_ touched him. Sansa has touched more than that. With her fingers. With her soft, gentle mouth.

“’course not, m-milord.”

It’s a lie and Ramsay catches it. Or, perhaps he already knew. sees it in Ramsay’s eyes, realizes that he just failed a test.

“Faithless dog.” Ramsay near spits it out, livid. “You’ve been groveling at her goddamn feet this whole time, haven’t you? _Haven’t you?_ ”

Shuddering, Theon tries to concentrate on not trembling like a wet leaf. He finds himself scrambling to find the right words, tries to find something that Ramsay will want to hear. Only, there’s nothing Theon can say that will fix this…and deep down he knows it.

“I only do as my Lady pleases,” Theon utters. “I serve her and her needs.”

Ramsay must see something in his face, because his own expression darkens. “Surely, you don’t mean to tell me she’s been touching your depraved, disgusting body, do you? That she truly _wants you_?”

Hands shaking wildly, Theon tries to hide them behind his back, not wanting to show the other man how terribly he distresses him. He meets Ramsay’s pale gaze and guiltily looks away.

“You’re lying.” Ramsay’s words sound bitten out.

“It’s not your business.” Theon realizes those are not the appropriate words for this conversation, because frankly, it is.

It’s almost comical how incensed Ramsay looks. Appalled. Full of disbelief. “She’s repulsed by your body. She’d never _want_ to touch you. All your marks, your _mangled fucking fingers_ , you’re disgusting-”

“It seems you’re not the only one able to look past my…deformities. But, you already knew that. You just never wanted to accept it.”

Ramsay gapes at him, eyes wide. His mouth shifts into a silent snarl as he digests Theon’s words. It’s fascinating to see him come to terms with the fact that he can’t truly control Theon anymore, can’t control who touches him and who doesn’t.

The control is gone.

For a moment, a flash of dismay burns to life in his eyes, but he quickly shutters it away, face going blank. As if empty of emotion. Theon knows this is to hide pain, to hide disappointment. He witnessed this exact expression cross his master’s face whenever he interacted with his father.

When he’s in control of his emotions again, Ramsay straightens his shoulders and looks at Theon imperiously. His tone drops into darkness. “Come closer. Or are you afraid of me?”

_I’ll always be afraid of you._

Theon has seen the way that Ramsay watches where Theon’s feet go. There must be a point in the room that Ramsay can move to before his shackles restrict him. He vaguely wonders if Ramsay would like to strangle him with his chains.

It’s a terrible idea, to walk forward. Theon subtly looks at the floor, to see where the dust is and where it’s been disturbed. He can almost glean where Ramsay’s range of motion is. Cautiously, slowly, he walks, each step bringing him closer to the object of his nightmares.

Ramsay stands up from where he’s been seated, looking rather disheveled. Bloody lips and darkened, bruised eyes. He waits patiently, eyes lidded heavily as Theon makes his way forward.

When Theon is maybe three feet from him, Ramsay _moves_ , just as Theon expected he would.

The chains rattle loudly as Ramsay makes as if to grab at him. Theon isn’t surprised, but it still makes his heart leap in terror. They end up nose to nose, Ramsay’s hands just inches from wrapping around Theon’s throat.

Huffing a short little laugh out, realizing that Theon expected this, Ramsay says, “Sly pup, aren’t you?”

Trying to keep his breathing even, but failing, Theon whispers, “Would you have done it? Strangled me to death?”

“What do you think?”

Theon doesn’t know what to think. Reek would have gladly allowed it; Reek would have died without a fight.

Straining at his chains, Ramsay leans forward as much as he can, pulling at his shackles. He’s completely inside of Theon’s personal space, though Theon knows Ramsay has always considered Theon’s space to be his own.

“Does my wife make your heart race, the same way I do?” Ramsay asks bitterly.

“I would never compare either of you.”

Ramsay’s tone is sarcastic. “How gentlemanly of you.”

Theon’s heart _is_ racing, as it were. Pounding in his chest, in his temples. Throbbing in his body, a sound he can practically hear echoing in his eardrums. No one in this world has ever made Theon feel the way Ramsay Bolton does.

Out of control. Weak. _Powerless_. Fully dependent upon someone else and their twisted mercy. Needing their kindness, for without it, there is a void of nothingness and agony.

“But, answer me this.” With his breath hot on Theon’s ear, Ramsay rasps, “Are you still mine?”

Theon’s throat works and the world seems to freeze. Reek is singing-songing in his brain with his mangled fingers waving about like a demented conductor, _meek Reek, sweet Reek, master’s Reek, always. Forever. Until the worms drill into our skull. Until the world burns. Until there’s nothing left._

Theon lungs spasm. He chokes on his own inability to inhale.

He steps backward from the immediate threat and flees the room.

He doesn’t want to face the truth, because the truth is never pretty.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
It takes another night alone for Theon to pull himself back together. To hold his sanity in place, to shove Reek into darkness. He tries to pull the ragged mask of Theon Greyjoy back into place, to wear his false confidence. To protect himself and his fragile insides, his unhealed wounds. If he tries hard enough, he can even believe that Reek doesn't exist, somewhere inside of him.

The next time he returns to the dungeon, Ramsay is back on the rack, his breathing pained. It’s a labored sound, punctuated with hisses of discomfort.

Sansa has sloppily cut off two of his fingers, Theon sees. Dread, sorrow, and a strange vengeance build inside of him at the sight.

“My dog,” Ramsay rasps with a dry mouth. Dry as the desert. “Come to gloat at what your beloved mistress has done?”

_He can’t harm you; he’s tied down._

Gathering his strength, ignoring the mental wails from Reek about how their master has been wronged, how he needs to be set free, how _Sansa must be punished_ , Theon walks on numb legs. He surveys the damage and silently sets about fixing the wounds that he can.

An old part of Theon, from long, long ago, would certainly have gloated. He would have crowed with glee at the sight of his longtime aggressor reduced to such a poor, sorry state. Theon is no longer that man.

_…not much of a man at all._

“You’re a sorry excuse for a nursemaid,” Ramsay drawls.

Ramsay’s right. Theon’s fingers tremble too much and his missing digits make it hard to pristinely wrap Ramsay’s injuries.

“I’m the only one you’ll get.”

A snort. Then, a grimace as Theon tightens a wrapping on one of his stubbed, mauled fingers. “I bloody hate that bitch,” Ramsay mutters.

Staring down at his master, Theon feels as if he’s living in another reality. How has it come to this? How is it that Theon is free and his master is now a prisoner? The world no longer makes sense.

“You hate her only because you cannot harm her anymore.” Theon pauses. One thing, if anything, becomes clear to him. “Above all, you loathe the absence of power and control. You hate being viewed as a common bastard boy, with no name to speak of. You never liked being looked down upon, of being unworthy of notice. It sickens you. Being nothing.”

The reaction is quiet, but very noticeable. Those eerie pale eyes narrow dangerously, pupils constricting into pinpricks of volatile emotion. The clench of his jaw, his teeth making an audible noise. “That sounds rather uppity for a stupid cunt,” Ramsay whispers. “I made you into nothing. You will never be better than me.”

Absurdly, Theon wants to prove him wrong. Reek is locked away, his mumblings indecipherable; there's nothing to hold Theon back. 

He runs his fingers through that midnight dark hair. It’s getting greasy, full of sweat. And yet, his hair is thick and lovely, the way Theon’s used to be. He admires it, briefly, the way it feels between his fingertips.

Vaguely, he wonders if he could dream of something like this. If once more, Theon could find solace in sexual dominance, but only in his darkest fantasies, asleep, never to see the light of day.

“What are you doing?” Ramsay says flatly, eyes flashing with warning.

For once, Theon doesn’t stop. His master never allowed Reek to touch him without permission…but Theon doesn’t need to be bound by such unspoken rules.

“Reek, stop-”

“I don’t think I will,” Theon says, a strange sort of wicked pleasure building in his chest, because _he’s not Reek_ and this feels like touching an open flame.

Blatantly, he disobeys his master. Reek’s master. Not Theon’s master.

_Keep telling yourself that until it feels real._

He doesn’t stop. He simply continues massaging Ramsay’s scalp, drinking in the self-disgust that fills Ramsay’s pale eyes, even as he subtly leans into Theon’s hand, unable to deny the fact that his body craves a gentle human touch.

A touch that doesn’t hurt.

Bitter, Theon could almost laugh. He remembers what it feels like, to be ashamed of needing someone’s touch. To be so in agony, to be so miserable, that any kindness could feel like heaven.

Even if such kindness came from the reason for all his pain.  
  


* * *

  
After that small display of weakness and vulnerability, Ramsay is less than pleasant when Theon next drags himself to the dungeon. It feels like he’s walking to his own execution, every time he enters the dim underground room.

He pretends Theon isn’t there. As if his existence doesn’t matter. Somehow, it feels like punishment and Theon doesn’t know why. Why should he care if Ramsay engages with him or not?

…and yet, it bites.

The cold shoulder is uncomfortable. Terribly so. It makes Theon feel worse than worthless until he can’t suffer through it anymore. He hides in his own chambers for a few days, hoping that his heart will stop feeling compelled to enter that loathsome space under Winterfell. Reek rears his ugly head once more, whispering all sorts of madness to Theon. _you've angered master. He's mad at you. You know what he does when he's mad. He'll whip you bloody. He'll pierce your tongue and make you lick food off the floor while you bleed like a stuck pig. Freak Reek. Meat. Stinking Meat. You pretended to be Theon Greyjoy. Master hates Theon Greyjoy. Theon Greyjoy never listened. Reek Reek Reek, weeping meat..._

Theon just wants the mental anguish to stop.

After a week of avoiding the dungeon and Ramsay's cold indifference, Theon returns, like a kicked dog. Only this time, instead of getting the cruel silent treatment, Ramsay eyes light on him with barely concealed relief. Theon doesn't dare believe it's from any sort of fondness; it's because being locked up and alone can easily drive someone mad. 

Theon is almost relieved to hear the cruel sound of his voice, even as Ramsay snaps, “You worthless slug! Where have you been cowering?”

It seems even Theon’s master doesn’t do well in the darkness alone.  
  
It almost makes him seem human.

* * *

  
After that, there are only rare occasions that Theon doesn’t visit. There are days when he stays away, because Sansa has asked him to. He understands that it’s another way to break Ramsay down. Withholding any positive interactions with another human being can be a powerful tool, as Theon has already seen. He’s suffered this sort of punishment himself.

Isolating someone with their pain and sheer loneliness is enough to slowly break a man down.

But mostly, Theon is allowed to limp back to the dreadful dungeon, to see what has befallen his master after Sansa does whatever it is she does.

There are still days when Ramsay finds himself having a taste for blood, his tongue sharp and wicked like any blade.

He calls Theon all sorts of names, reminds him of all kinds of horrors that befell him once upon a time. Theon allows the abuses to fall on his body, like ocean waves against a stone wall. He absorbs it with a sort of numb acknowledgement.

Words can hurt. They simply don’t hurt _enough_. 

Some days, in the dark when he’s alone, he finds himself wanting pain. As if it’s a reminder that he’s still breathing. That his heart hasn’t yet died.

Lately, he’s been bearing witness to the fact that Ramsay has slowly begun to accept the lack of his own power. The fact that Ramsay can’t force Theon to set him free has had a demoralizing effect on the sadistic young lord.

Parts of Theon do sneer at this, pleased that for once, he now has the upper hand. His torturer has only his words…and Theon has suffered far worse than a few cruel snipes. Theon likes to imagine that parts of who he once was is beginning to come alive again…but he always proves himself wrong.

Terribly, horribly _wrong_. He forgets that Theon Greyjoy is but a mask.

Because for every moment he _thinks_ he feels pleased at how Ramsay is slowly being worn down, there are a thousand moments more that he feels sorrow and loss. As if he’s the one suffering instead of Ramsay. He cannot separate himself.

Theon can’t remain distant.

_He still remembers the days when he was sent to sleep in the kennels, all alone. Not a soul to care for him. When the cruel chill of winter came, he’d try and stay warm huddled next to his master’s hounds. He’d try to feel comfort, with his shaking fingers pressed against their fur._

_The hounds were kind to Reek, though Reek often found himself full of despair and loneliness. No humans wanted to interact with Reek; he smelled foul and had a strange, terrified demeanor. No, the only person who ever truly paid him much attention was his master._

_And not all of that attention of positive. In fact, most of it was pain and misery. Reek suffered a great many indignities, just to please Ramsay._

_He would kiss his boots, clean them with his tongue._

_Reek would eat from the floor if Ramsay threw a meal there, down onto the stones, smirking with his boys. It amused him, to see Reek so debased and pathetic, slobbering like a dog._

_There were times that he would punish Reek in the dungeon, would have Damon whip him, just to listen to Reek scream and beg. Reek knew to never say please, because ‘please’ never worked. It only caused more agony._

_Afterwards, Ramsay would dismiss Damon and it would be just the two of the again. He’d smile down at Reek with sadistic amusement and would pet his head, even as Reek sobbed weakly._

_His words, like dangerous claws, walking across Reek’s flesh, “I’ve been merciful, haven’t I, Reek? Damon wanted to give your thirty lashes.”_

_“…v-very m-merciful, milord. Very- Reek, meek.” Shaking, in shock, pain like fire in his ragged flesh._

_“Yes, yes. Show me how grateful you are.”_

_A pause._

_And though Reek’s back ached with the agony of a thousand suns, he raised his trembling fingers to his master’s breeches and unlaced them, pressed his mouth eagerly against the fast-growing bulge he found there._

_Ramsay groaned, his head falling back languidly as Reek worked him to climax with his tongue._

_When it was over, his throat aching and his eyes watering, Reek would be left on the stone floor, used and forgotten. Wishing to ask for his master to stay, just so he wouldn’t feel so horrid and repulsive._

_Alone with himself._

_His master never did stay. He preferred to make Reek yearn for him and his cruel gaze, yearn for even the pain of his touch._

“I liked you better when you sniveled at my every word,” Ramsay is saying sardonically. “Now, you’re silent, like some sort of invalid.”

“What would you want me to talk to you about?” Theon wonders aloud, vaguely curious.

The blunt question seems to throw Ramsay off, as if he’s found himself confronted by a completely foreign concept.

With an ugly look on his face, Ramsay replies, “Uh…I don’t want you to talk. I want you to whimper like a kicked dog. I want you to crawl on your hands and knees and beg my forgiveness. Until you bleed like a stuck pig. I want to fuck your stupid mouth until you choke and piss on your disgusting face-”

_…the taste of him, on Reek’s tongue. Tongue worming into his slit, the way Ramsay likes. Wet, nasty sounds…_

Theon stands up abruptly and starts walking towards the door.

The verbal tirade abruptly stops, as if all the wind has been taken from Ramsay’s sails.

“…don’t go yet.” Soft, almost a shameful whisper.

Pausing with his hand on the doorknob, Theon feels awareness crawling up the nape of his neck. He has a strange sort of power, in this moment. Ramsay has exposed himself utterly. This is the belly of the tiger, unprotected, if only for a second in time.

“You want me to stay?” Theon asks, voice hoarse with emotion, a feeling he can’t shake.

He feels like drowning. Reek is just under his skin, eyes wild, wanting to take over. To be with _master_. To lick and kiss his fingers, even the bloodied stubs. To suck them to pieces, to taste his flesh, to devolve into a creature of terror, fervor, and depravity.

Looking over his shoulder, Theon finds himself meeting that full-moon gaze. His chest feels too tight and he can’t inhale, can’t seem to remember how that works.

Ramsay twitches one of his hands, the injured one, clenching it. He grits his teeth against the purposeful pain, welcoming it. “…do you recall how I feel about being asked to repeat myself?”

Theon’s fingers slide down the door slowly, feeling the wood grain, his heart pounding.  
  
  


* * *

* * *

  
  
Her fingers are soft, trailing across his hipbone. Her nails run across his flesh, tickling him with light sensation. Hard enough to leave small marks across his form.

“You’ve been taking good care of him.” Sansa’s mouth moves across his neck.

Theon swallows thickly, his fingers deep within her. “And you haven’t.”

Her teeth press against the shape of his Adams apple, a slight flick of her tongue. “Does that upset you? Still?” Sansa gasps a bit as he changes his tactic, circling her clit with his thumb.

It feels like a hammer bludgeoning through his ribcage every time he sees a new wound on Ramsay Bolton. Reek screams like a banshee and Theon finds himself empty of any pleasure, seeing new pains to ease. “It will always upset me.” His words are almost nonexistent. Hoarse and rough in his throat.

Sansa stops speaking, focusing on shifting her own hips to a certain rhythm, chasing her desire. She’s wet around his digits, the way she was never wet for their master. Her breathing grows shallow and he watches her intently, not wanting to think of Ramsay in this moment.

He watches the shape her mouth makes when she comes. Theon presses his lips over hers and she tastes like wine, bitter revenge, and impatience.

_ {Ramsay often tasted of wine, of spicy clove. His hands aggressive and bruising, laughter cruel. He always found new ways to bring shame to Reek, to make Theon smaller each and every day. The glee in his gaze when he would force Reek to spill his seed onto the stone floors, under watchful, mocking eyes…} _

_ {Good boy, you’ve gotten so good at that. You like getting fucked. You like having your greedy hole stuffed, don’t you, Reek?} _

“What are you thinking of?” Sansa asks as she kisses her way downward.

He grips her fingers and presses them at his entrance, avoids her eyes. Regardless, _she knows_. Wordlessly, she bites the thin flesh of his hipbone, hard enough to make him groan in pain. Her fingers, press forward dry, because he wants it to hurt, _needs it to hurt_.

He wishes she were heavy enough to weigh him down. To bruise his wrists. She’s tried, occasionally. It just never feels the same.

_ {…pressed down into the furs, he can’t breathe, can’t move, he’s trapped by a familiar form, one hand at his throat. Grunts of pleasure, fingers bruising, teeth in his throat. Raspy growls of ‘this is where you belong, no better than a common whore’…} _

Theon must end their dark past. She’s growing weary of waiting for him to put it to rest.

The idea of it makes his eyes burn.  
  


* * *

* * *

  
  
Jon corners him in the godswood one morning, just as the sun begins to creep into the sky. It reflects off the snow, beautiful in its silence. Peaceful.

Theon wonders if dying can be this serene.

“What is my sister doing to you?”

The voice comes from just beside his right shoulder. He flinches on instinct, but quickly regains what little poise he still possesses. “What do you mean?”

Jon’s face is tired, as if he’s a man who has seen far too much. Theon can sympathize with that. “You look like you’re falling apart. A puppet, more than a man.”

“To be fair, I’ve looked quite frightful for some time,” Theon rasps.

Shaking his head, dark hair pulled back sharply, Jon replies, “That’s not what I meant and you know it. I know it. She told me, what you looked like before we liberated Winterfell. You looked a far sight better when you first came here a few weeks ago. What’s changed?”

Does he truly not know? Theon studies his face, wondering. “She’s having me take care of Lord Bolton…before his e-e-execution is…set.” He cringes. He never used to stumble over his own words.

Jon absorbs the words, looking vaguely ill. His mouth goes firm. “That’s not right. What she’s doing is not _right_. That man is _poison_. I can see him in your eyes. Just as I see him in hers.”

With his eyes tracing the creepy face of the weeping tree, Theon ponders that. “He’s always been a monster. From the very moment I met him. He gets into your veins and he doesn’t let go.”

A hand falls on his shoulder and Theon feels himself shudder at the contact. Ramsay would often clap him on the shoulder and grin like a cat whenever Reek played Theon Greyjoy well.

_…Theon plays Reek plays Theon who plays Reek who pretends to be Theon and the circle continues until he’s no one and nothing…_

Jon is close enough that Theon can smell the scent of morning frost hovering about him. “This is killing you. Whatever she’s asked you to do, it’s _killing you_ , Theon.”

“Maybe I don’t care,” Theon says, his breath in the air.

“It needs to stop. All of it needs to stop.”

The sun bathes them in a gentle sort of warmth, despite the cold. All is still. All is quiet in the morning light.

“It will stop,” Theon says numbly. Vacant. “Soon.”  
  
  


* * *

* * *

  
  
Sansa descends down into the dungeon, listening to the careful lull of the two voices in the far room as she quietly approaches. The rise and fall of Ramsay’s tone, the soft utterances from Theon’s lips, filtering through the closed door. Neither man talks much, it seems they are happy to sit in _companionable_ silence.

Though, sometimes she’s listened to what they say. Parsing over Theon’s responses to his former master. It’s near impossible to decipher what’s going on inside of Theon; his loyalties are murky, despite what he says when he’s with her.

Her relationship with him is built upon their mutual suffering. His willingness to serve and bend his knee to her, to support her. The only threat to it all is the fact that Theon has buried a coffin under their bond of _mutual suffering_.

The coffin contains a horrific, grotesque adoration that is not for Sansa.

Regardless, it matters not. In the end, she will have what she wants. Theon will heal and forget all the things they should have never be subject to. The coffin will become forgotten, nameless.

_The clock is ticking, Theon. Your time grows short._

She suspects that Ramsay now associates her with ‘unpleasant’ meetings and views Theon as his relief. Just as she planned.

Opening the door, Sansa takes in the scene before her. Theon slides his hand away from Ramsay with a guilty expression, staring downward at the stone floor. He clutches his hand to himself, as if injured. Ramsay is giving her a hateful look, eyes alive with icy flame. Clasping her hands in front of herself, Sansa says softly to Theon, hiding her ire, “Would you please give me the room? You can come back later, if you would like. My husband and I have some things to discuss.”

For a harrowing second, Theon nearly looks at Ramsay, as if seeking permission. He does an odd twitch, giving himself away. _Don’t you dare look to him,_ Sansa thinks darkly. _Don’t you dare, Theon._

Thankfully, he holds himself frightfully still for a moment, as if gaining control of his body, eyes screwed shut. Then, Theon nods to Sansa and gets up from where he’s sitting, his knees loudly creaking. Sansa almost winces at the sound.

It does not escape her notice, the way he cradles his hand. She inhales hard through her nose, dark coils of anger unfurling in her heart. An injury. She shifts her gaze back to Ramsay, keeping her face empty of her feelings.

Ramsay is watching him go with keen eyes, as if he’d love to demand Theon stay. Sansa wonders if he knows how close Theon came to _asking_ to stay with him. Her stomach sours.

When he’s gone, she focuses her energy on her husband, who simply can’t die soon enough for her tastes. Ramsay has no pleasantries for her and it’s now that she sees resentment, plain as day. He _resents_ Sansa.

Such progress she’s made!

Marching up to him without much preamble, Sansa sharply backhands him, enjoying the way he grunts in pain at the impact. His face flung to the side, Ramsay works his jaw to ease discomfort. “Always a pleasure, Sansa.”

Hissing in his face, she says, “What did you do to his hand? Hm? Did you think I wouldn’t notice? _I see all_.”

_Just like you once did, lord husband._

A sliver of dark victory appears in his icy eyes. “He wanted to be punished. I obliged.”

She files that away in her memory. “Which finger?”

He stares at her blankly.

With a sharp, angry movement, Sansa grabs one of his fingers -one she didn't chop to bits- and pulls it up threateningly. “Was it this one? Or should I try another?”

She sees that he knows what she’s about to do. His body tenses and his jaw clenches hard, only moments before she yanks hard, hearing a sickening crunch. To his credit, Ramsay doesn’t cry out in pain, but he makes a sound low in his throat, an impressive display of stoicism.

His chest rises and falls quickly, the only sign he truly gives that he’s feeling discomfort.

“Anything you do to him, I will revisit upon you,” Sansa informs him. “Remember that next time you think you want to indulge yourself.”

For a moment, it looks like Ramsay wants to hurl all sorts of abuses at her, but instead, his lip curls and he looks away, unable to meet her gaze.

A trill of excitement and triumph flitter through Sansa.

“That’s it. _That’s_ what I’ve been looking for, dearest husband,” she says quietly, pleased.

“…and what’s that?” His voice is dry and sarcastic, still not looking at her.

Her eyebrows rise delicately. She notices his distinct omission of ‘dear wife,’ one of his usual barbs to try and unsettle her. “This look on your face. In your eyes,” she says, circling around him, steps measured and careful. “Weeks and weeks, you pretended your cruel indifference. You laughed at me. You made your disgusting statements, tried to humiliate me. Now, you’re actually _bitter_. Nearly defeated. Plain as the sky.”

“What point are you getting at, you insolent cow?”

Sansa smiles unpleasantly. “You’ve finally realized that you have no control, no power. You are nothing now.” She inhales sharply. “That tastes so good. How the mighty have fallen.”

“Those are big words for a whore-”

Raising her voice over his, Sansa continues, “He’s mine. Maybe you need a reminder, now that he’s been visiting you more. Or perhaps you just need to hear that he’ll stay mine, long after you’re gone.”

“No, _you stupid, mongrel bitch_ -”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take better care of him than you did.” She stops in front of him. Time to lay down the final seeds of dismay. “Maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll just give _you_ to _him_. As a gift. Maybe I’ll let him keep you down here forever, as a pet. A plaything. Until you wither away and die, long forgotten by anyone of importance. No one will even remember your name, or who you were.”

Silence. Then-

Ramsay smirks coldly. It’s a sluggish, unpleasant expression, crawling across his face. “You and I both know you won’t do that. It’s only a matter of time before he comes to heel again and sets me loose. He’s not as assured as you think. He’s got more than a few screws loose.”

Sansa fears this, actually. She’s seen slivers of Reek in Theon’s gaze, here and there. More frequently than before.

It seems Ramsay isn’t finished laying out his own kernels of discord. “…and…guess what? I’ve had a lot of time down here, to sit and think of what I’ll do to you when I’m free.” His eyes flash maliciously. “I’ll skin you alive first, Sansa, make no mistake. I’ll pull bits of your flesh off, like tearing away a costume. Your skin will _rip_. I’ll put it on the wall, where you can see it, so you can imagine what it would be like to have it nailed back to your bones. Then, I’ll fuck your bloody body until you stop breathing-”

Grabbing his injured hand tightly, watching him gasp in pain, Sansa says, “I never said I had decided on giving you to him. It was simply a thought. Do you want to know the real reason why you’re not dead? Well? Do you want to know?”

Silence falls between them and Sansa picks her next verbal barb carefully. She leans over his body, a snarl shaping her mouth. “The truth is - _and I think you’ll love this_ \- the truth _is_ , he’s not told me you can die yet. Imagine, your life is currently in Theon Greyjoy’s hands.” Sansa beams. “I think it’s poetic. It all ends when he says it ends.”

The expression that forms on Ramsay’s face says that he thinks it’s a travesty. “You stupid bitch.” His voice is strangely flat, soft. Eyes empty wastelands of solid denial. “He’d never turn on me. _I trained him_.”

The seed of doubt has been placed. Sansa stands up and idly brushes off her skirts. “We’ll see, won’t we, Lord Bolton? _We’ll see_.”  
  


* * *

  
Sansa slinks into Theon’s quarters sometime after midnight. He wakes upon feeling her fingertips trailing over his shoulder. He waits patiently for her to reveal why she has sought him out, so late in the night. She doesn’t make him wait long. “I listened,” she utters in a strangely distant voice. “At the door. Earlier.”

 _What did she hear?_ A sliver of shame slides through him, like a rotted worm.

_ {“I see new wounds on your arms. Your knuckles. Is that your doing, Reek?”} _

_ {“…pain is…familiar, milord.”} _

_ {“Do you miss it? Being reminded of how worthless you are? Of what you deserve?”} _

_ {A sob. A painful clench in his heart, dark and twisted. “…yes.”} _

Theon will assume she heard enough.

“Why torture yourself in that manner, my Lady?” Theon feels numb.

Gently, she touches his hand, feeling the swollen finger. “You should let the maester splint this,” she whispers. She sounds angry, though this time, Theon suspects she’s mad at him.

“You should know by now that I can’t do what you ask,” he utters to the darkness.

“Don’t lie to me. Lie to him, but don’t lie to me.”

“You already know I _can’t_ lie to him. I’m not wired to be any other way. Don’t you understand what I’m telling you, Sansa?” Fresh tears make his eyes burn. Self-hate tastes like ash on his tongue. “I can’t let go. I don’t know how to _be_ anymore. All I know is pain, to remind me that I’m still breathing. That I _belonged to someone_.”

“Shhh. Stop, _stop it_ , Theon! Don’t you see?” Her lovely, cold eyes are searching his face with a certain intentness, willing him to understand. “It has to be you, Theon. It has to be _you_.”

“But _why_? I don’t want to be-be i-involved! I c-can’t.” He feels the latch unlocking on Reek’s cage in his mind, the sniveling creature digging into him with crooked fingers and broken nails, filthy, dirty.

He begins hyperventilating.

She presses her forehead to his, trying to calm them both. For a moment, she makes soothing noises, fully crawling into bed with him. “You were the best thing Bolton ever made. _You_. Don’t you remember how _proud_ he was, to claim that he’d remade you? Remade you into a brokenly loyal beast-”

“Stop.” He doesn’t want to hear his shame laid out.

“I was his wife in name and you were his in the other way that mattered. If I had put him to death immediately after taking Winterfell, he would have sneered the whole way to the gallows, laughing that he’d already made his cruel mark in this world. But you, Theon. If it’s you that sends him to his death. Can you imagine the look on his face?”

Theon can. Piercing eyes, alight with murder and mayhem, lips pulled into a snarl of rage. Betrayal, even. _Unfaithful Reek. Faithless. Worthless. Still a Turncoat after all! This is how you repay your beloved master? With a noose? I’ll find you in the afterlife and flay you until there’s nothing left for anyone to find._

He shudders, feeling sick _._ Theon also imagines Sansa has had quite some time to think this through. “I can’t do it, Sansa.”

“Theon,” Sansa says seriously, watching his shifting emotions. She turns his face to hers, her breath soft and minty on his lips. “If _you_ do not do it, _I will_. And I will feed him to his bloody hounds. Alive. _Do you hear me_?”

His mouth drops open in horror, as if knifed, and Sansa looks away from him sharply. He can’t see how terribly his reaction has hurt her, that she’s ashamed she had to verbally knife him in such a manner. He can't see how her lips tremble.

She gets up from the bed, leaving those words to fester in his mind.

The words rot and fester and all he feels is ill, thinking of all the human girls he saw Ramsay hunt down, to be torn apart by his hounds. The screams. The blood. The ripping and tearing of flesh. The inhuman excitement on Ramsay’s face.

All these thoughts end upon Ramsay patting his head with near affection, at the dinner table, shooting him a fond smile, lit with far too much wine.

Theon can’t imagine dogs tearing him apart. He doesn’t want to.

Even if it’s what he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Comments and kudos are loved ♥
> 
> OMG. Well. This got really angsty. And long. I meant for there to be 3 chapters, but alas...now we have 4. 
> 
> ******  
> Also, I have this image in my head and it just won't stop making me laugh now:  
>  **Sansa:** Everything is going swimmingly.  
>  **Sansa:** *listens at dungeon door*  
>  **Sansa:** *turns to face the camera, The Office style*  
>  **Sansa:** I may have made a grave mistake  
>  **Sansa:** *visibly recovers* it's fine, still have those hungry dogs


End file.
